


Anger and Hope

by winfarthing



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:13:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 136,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4418948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winfarthing/pseuds/winfarthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Explores the ultimate question: who would Franky choose...Bridget or Erica</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freedom

"Hot car," Franky Doyle said as she slid down into the leather seat. She looked across at Bridget. Her expression knowing and her green eyes alight with amusement. "Yours?" She added after a moment.

Bridget laughed and she looked away briefly before her eyes were drawn inevitably back to her dark haired companion. Franky looked so different in civvies without her tattoos and underwear brazenly on display. "Yes, it's mine," she admitted, still smiling. 

Franky's eyebrows went up and she nodded. "I'm impressed, Gidget," she admitted slowly, her eyes taking in the luxury interior. After a moment her eyes returned to Bridget, who was watching her reaction. "Let's get out of here." She said suddenly.

Bridget nodded and switched on the engine. "Where to?"

"As far the fuck away from here as possible," Franky responded half flippant, half serious.

"Okay then," Bridget swung the convertible into a tight u-turn.

Franky didn't look back. Her eyes were fixed firmly forward. She felt herself relax into the leather upholstery. Today life was good. She was alive. She was free. Bridget had surprised her by showing up. She hadn't expected it even if she had thought about it, wanted it, hoped for it. Franky wouldn’t forget the sight of her as she stepped out of the car in her leather jacket and those skin tight jeans with that smile. She wasn't sure she had ever seen Bridget smile quite like that. It was unrestrained, it was generous, and it held a world of promise.

Franky looked across at Bridget whose eyes were on the road but a smile lingered on her lips. She was attractive in profile with a clear complexion, her blonde hair, thick and messy, casually controlled by a hair band, the fringe falling long to the side and curling, softening her face. She had an aura of confidence and maturity that was understated and yet undoubtedly there. It was sexy, Franky acknowledged. There was nothing desperate about Bridget Westfall and yet Franky sensed there was much more to the polished professional psychologist than she had glimpsed so far. 

"How'd you know I'd be released today?" She asked suddenly.

"I asked Vera," Bridget said without taking her eyes off the road.

"Miss Bennett?" Franky sounded surprised. "I thought she was the one who got you sacked."

"She was," Bridget agreed. "But she worked out Ferguson's role in Jodie Spiteri's injuries and now we're-"

"Friends?" Franky asked sceptically.

"Allies," Bridget finished with. "She's the reason I was at your parole hearing. Ferguson moved it forward and had no intention of telling me. It was Vera who warned me."

Franky laughed a little cynically. "Never thought I'd have reason to be grateful to Vinegar Tits," she said eventually. 

“She dropped the charge against you,” Bridget reminded her.

“We both know that was down to you, Gidget,” Franky was dismissive. “In fact, she was riding my arse pretty fucking hard there for a while."

"She was a victim of Ferguson's manipulative machinations. I warned her she would get caught in the backwash when Ferguson went down. In the end Vera was pivotal in bringing her down."

"Gidge," Franky said with a sigh. "I don't give a fuck about Ferguson, or that place. I've only got one thing on my mind." 

"And what's that, Franky?" Bridget asked with a smile in her voice.

"Coffee," Franky grinned at her. "I haven't had a fucking decent coffee in five years." Her mind suddenly flashed back to a morning in the governor's office two years ago. Erica Davidson's sexy looks and attractive resistance came to mind unexpectedly. Franky remembered her cocky demand for real coffee and Erica obliging her. She hadn't had more than a mouthful in the end, the unsavoury discussion about her father had killed her enthusiasm for it. She remembered it as though it was yesterday.

"Okay," Bridget was laughing. "Not what I was expecting," she acknowledged.

"What were you expecting then?" Franky returned to the present with a teasing smile in her voice.

“Well, it’s the first day of your parole, Franky, you are pretty much free to do whatever you want so,” Bridget glanced across at her passenger.

“Five minutes ago I was walking down this road to a halfway house with twenty bucks in my pocket and not a lot of options.” She pointed out bluntly. “So my mind’s taking a second to catch up to reality.”

Bridget heard the slightly defensive tone. “It’s a good reality, I hope,” she said, giving an encouraging smile, defusing the tension.

Franky relaxed. “Yeah, it is,” she acknowledged with a smile.

“How are you?” Bridget asked. “Vera said you’d put yourself in danger to save Doreen’s baby during the fire. I saw the news reports but they didn’t say much about who’d been injured. I was worried.” The words were inadequate to describe her feelings when she switched on the news to see Wentworth lit up by flames against the night’s sky. She had watched with growing concern as the story unfolded. The idea that Franky, so close to freedom, could be caught up in a random incident which could steal that from her was heart-breaking. She had sat with her eyes glued to the coverage, her mobile phone in her lap waiting for someone from Wentworth to return her calls. 

Franky shrugged. “It was Dor’s baby,” she offered in explanation. She hadn’t thought much about the danger at the time. She had acted out of necessity and because she and Bea had been best placed to succeed. When it looked like she would pay the consequences for that choice, she had laughed at the irony of it. 

“You’re a leader, Franky,” Bridget told her. “You stepped up in a moment of crisis and kept a cool head,” she smiled. “But I hope you’re not intending to make a habit of it, I don’t think my nerves could handle it.” She couldn’t help adding.

Franky heard something in Bridget's last remark which gave her hope. "You planning on sticking around then?" She couldn't help asking, daring Bridget to put in words what her actions had already implied.

"I have no intention of going anywhere," Bridget said without hesitation.

Franky looked thoughtful. "Good," she said at last. "Where are we going?" She asked curiously.

“I know a place that does great coffee.” Bridget informed her as she turned left at a set of traffic lights.

“Your place?” Franky suggested hopefully.

The café was in Hawthorn. It was small with red walls covered in small framed photographs. They were a random collection of faces, old, young, from seemingly every different culture and background. 

“I’ll order, what’ll you have?” Bridget asked as Franky studied the decor curiously. 

“Double expresso, milk on the side,” Franky instructed absently. 

Bridget went to the counter to order. Franky found a table that sat two, away from the other customers. After five years of being cooped up with hundreds of women, she appreciated the luxury of having some space.

It seemed surreal to be sitting in a café. The other customers ignored her, absorbed in their own conversations, as Franky watched them. The habit of hooded observation occurred automatically. In prison she would study the other women in an attempt to glean insights into the alliances forming and trouble that might be brewing.

“Are you all right?” Bridget asked as she sat down across from her.

“Sure,” Franky said immediately, sliding forward in her chair and resting her forearms on the table. Her green eyes focussed on her companion. 

“Not feeling strange?” Bridget asked with insight. “It is an adjustment.”

Franky shrugged. “So Gidge,” she began with a grin, “are you wagging or something? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Bridget laughed. “Something like that,” she agreed. “I took the day off.”

“Did you?” Franky’s smile broadened. The tone was full of innuendo. “Better make the most of it then,” she suggested.

“How do you propose I do that, Franky?” Bridget asked, a smile hovering.

“I can think of a few things,” the smile and the tone were flirty. 

“Why don’t you tell me?” Bridget’s blue eyes didn’t waver. 

Their coffees arrived and both women sat back as the waitress slid the cups in front of them. Franky breathed in, enjoying the aroma, savouring the anticipation of that first taste. She added milk to the dark liquid but barely enough to change its hue. 

“Freedom in a cup,” Franky declared as she put down her coffee after her first sip. 

Bridget was smiling. It was an unexpected treat to be able to witness firsthand the delights of being free. It wasn’t something she ever imagined experiencing herself. The idea that she might somehow end up on the wrong side of prison bars was incomprehensible. “Well, I hope we can do better than just that,” she offered.

Franky liked the sound of that. “I’m sure we can,” she agreed. Her eyes lingered on Bridget’s lips and she caught her own bottom lip between her teeth as her mind wandered deliciously back to their kiss. She remembered Bridget's hand on the back of her neck and her upper arm and her lips soft and certain. Her caress, like her words just now, had surprised Franky. 

Bridget was reliable, she realised with cautious hope. She had ended their sessions but had come to the kitchen to explain her reasons. She had left Wentworth but had returned for Franky’s parole hearing. She had turned up again at the gates today. Franky was beginning to see a pattern. 

“So, you come here a lot huh?” Franky asked, breaking the silence that had become filled with expectation.

“Sometimes, yes,” Bridget confirmed as she sat back and picked up her coffee again. She was drinking a flat white without sugar, Franky noted. 

Franky slouched back into her chair and crossed her arms. “So I’m thinking your place is nearby,” she surmised with a grin. 

Bridget laughed softly, acknowledging Franky’s obvious attempt to lead the conversation in the direction of her choosing. “That’s right,” she admitted. She watched Franky over the rim of her cup. "What are your plans?" she asked in part out of curiosity and in part to change the subject.

Franky smiled. "Get my diploma; become a shit hot lawyer, what do you reckon?" 

Bridget pursed her lips and glanced away. "Transition can be difficult," she said after a bit. "Even with support structures, which you don't have," she pointed out.

Franky shrugged. "I've got you, Gidget," she responded with immediately, testing Bridget again.

"Yes, of course," Bridget acknowledged. "And I'll help you anyway I can."

"I got my parole because of you," Franky knew if it had been only Ferguson in that room it would have been a different story.

"No," Bridget was quick to set her straight. "You got parole because you showed the parole board how far you'd come and how committed you are to continuing the journey. If you hadn't been able to do that then nothing I could have said would have swayed them."

"I have worked in corrections for nearly twenty years but I have never treated a client with such potential as Franky Doyle," she quoted, raising her eyebrows sceptically. "I wasn't so out of it that I didn't know what was happening, Gidget."

Bridget smiled at her. “Apparently not,” she agreed.

“I know what you’ve done for me,” Franky leant forward, her eyes serious, “and I know why.”

Bridget couldn’t help smiling. Her eyes held warmth. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Franky looked knowing and cocky. She just smiled. The smile that could win a thousand hearts if hearts were so easily won. 

“Are you going to tell me?” Bridget asked at last. 

“Are you going to show me your place?” Franky countered with.

Bridget shook her head with amusement. Franky was an artist in the quick witty retort. 

In the silence which followed though the smile faded. "You never reported what I told you," Franky said in a low voice. "You were putting your job on the line. No one's ever done that for me. All my life people I care about have let me down, I've let down myself," she acknowledged, "until now, until you." Her eyes were so sincere, and her words so heartfelt that Bridget couldn’t help but respond to them. "I want to live up to that trust."

"Franky," Bridget put her hand on Franky's smooth one. "I meant every word I said at that parole hearing. You have such potential, and hope within you, which has survived despite everything. You draw people to you, with your charm and your intelligence and your bravado. I protected you because I care about what happens to you. I want you to know that."

Franky was smiling. She took Bridget's other hand in hers and held it. Her cautious optimism was threatening to overflow into reckless joy. Everything she had read albeit hopefully into the psychologist’s actions was now confirmed. Bridget had taken risks and fought for her, not because of her job description or she had anything to gain by it, but because she, Franky Doyle, angry young woman, mattered to her.

“I never expected to meet someone like you behind bars,” Bridget confessed, looking at their hands. “You don’t belong in Wentworth.”

“I’m never going back there,” Franky said with determination. Bridget believed her.

Bridget’s townhouse was three bedrooms on a single level. It had large windows in the living areas with a northerly aspect. The sun streamed in casting long inviting bands of sunshine across the wooden floorboards. The design was open with the kitchen separated from the living area by an island bench. It was tidy without being sterile. Franky could see Bridget’s laptop on the coffee table where she must have been working on the sofa. There was a mug in the sink along with a plate, the remnants of her breakfast. The fruit bowl contained apples and bananas and a tired looking lemon.

Bridget dumped her keys into an empty bowl on the bench. “Want a beer?”

Franky’s eyebrows went up. “Trying to get me drunk, are you?”

“I want you to relax, Franky,” Bridget surprised her by saying. “You are full of nervous energy.” 

It was true, Franky admitted, but she hadn’t realised it was so obvious. She watched Bridget pull two beers from the fridge and remove the bottle tops. They were a brand she didn’t recognise. She took the one Bridget offered and clinked her bottle against Bridget’s. “Cheers,” she said before taking a healthy swig. The ice cold liquid tasted slightly bitter. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had beer. She looked around curiously.

“Nice place,” she said as she moved around the room. She followed Bridget’s lead and took off her jacket and draped it over the back of an armchair. “You live here alone?”

“I do,” Bridget replied as she tossed the beer lids into the rubbish bin. 

“No cats?” Franky asked with a grin.

Bridget looked confused. “Should there be?”

Franky watched Bridget lean against the island bench. Her white fitted t-shirt had some design Franky couldn’t make out. It hugged the curve of her chest. “Do you want something to eat?” she heard Bridget ask.

“I want a lot of things,” she said with a grin. She moved in front of Bridget and put her hands on the either side of her, leaning against the bench, sliding her beer across the polished surface. Her eyes were drawn to Bridget’s mouth, which was parted slightly. She leant in. “What do you want?” She asked.

“I want to give us a chance,” Bridget put her hands on Franky’s hips. “but – “ she hesitated. 

“What?” Franky asked. 

Bridget was frowning. “I need to know you’re sure about this.”

The younger woman smiled. “I’m sure,” she answered immediately. 

“Because we can just be friends,” Bridget continued, “if you want.”

Franky’s expression showed her confusion and disappointment. “You want to be just friends?”

“No,” Bridget replied hastily. “But, there are rules, about relationships with clients,” she explained.

Franky just looked confused. “I’m not your client anymore,” she pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bridget said with a sigh. 

“Why?” 

“You are considered potentially vulnerable and therefore a relationship between us could be viewed as inappropriate.” Bridget looked apologetic. Franky wasn’t sure if she was apologising for the dumb-arse rule or that she was bringing it up.

“Who’s gonna know?” she asked after a bit. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“These rules are in place to protect the patient, to protect you,” Bridget wanted to be sure Franky understood.

“Well, I waive my right to be protected, okay?” Franky protested. “I waive it. So let’s Marvin Gay and get it on,” she said with a grin. 

“Franky,” Bridget said with a sigh. “This is serious.”

“I’m being serious, Gidget, I don’t care about the stupid rule.” Franky frowned. “I’ve spent five years following stupid rules. I want to give us a chance too. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Bridget smiled at her eloquence. “I agree,” she said, “but I needed to be sure you wanted this,” and Franky relaxed.

Bridget’s mouth was warm and soft and responsive. Franky held herself back, fighting the urgency she felt because she wanted to savour this. Bridget wasn’t a quick fuck. Franky had let Bridget dictate the boundaries of their relationship and she had respected those boundaries. In the end it had been worth it. Bridget had known what Franky hadn’t realised. That Franky needed someone she could rely on and trust, more than she needed another relationship based solely on her ability to control it. It wasn’t that she hadn’t cared about those other women but ultimately it had been about her, not them. With Bridget it was different. She knew it although she couldn’t explain it.

She felt herself relaxing into the kiss, enjoying it, letting her mind still as sensations overwhelmed her. Their tongues had an entire conversation as they got to know each other. 

Just then the doorbell rang. Franky looked a little dazed and Bridget had to laugh. “You might have mentioned you were expecting company,” she muttered as the blonde straightened her clothing.

“I’m not,” Bridget said and she put a hand on Franky’s shoulder as she went to answer the door. Franky found herself admiring the curve of the psychologist’s arse in those tight jeans. She grabbed her beer and had a mouthful. She needed to pee, she decided. She had forgotten how coffee did that to a person.

The bathroom was up the hallway. Like the rest of the house, it appeared to be recently renovated. Franky noted the bath with delight. One thing she had missed during her confinement was the luxury of a bath. As she returned to the kitchen she glanced through the open door into one of the other rooms off the hallway. Bridget’s taste was understated. She preferred classic off white walls and prints of abstract colour. As she looked more closely at the painting she realised they were small, distinct dots of colour applied in patterns to form the image. It made her think of tattoos. 

Franky sat on the sofa drinking her beer. She could hear voices and laughter at the front door. A black Labrador bounded around the sofa and bailed her up. His tail wagged ferociously and Franky rescued her beer just in time. His nose sniffed her legs with interest. Franky put her hand down for him to sniff, which he promptly licked. He continued to lick her hand with enthusiasm. 

Franky laughed. “Okay buddy,” she extracted her hand from his attention and patted his rump. 

“Franky, meet Jasper,” Bridget said with a smile. “He likes you.” She called him to her and he came obediently. “He’s my friend’s dog,” she explained. “He just slipped in while we were talking.”

“Everything okay?” Franky asked. 

“Richard is an artist, he saw my car in the driveway and thought it would be a good time to deliver some artwork I commissioned,” she looked apologetic. “You couldn’t give me a hand with it, could you?” 

“Sure,” Franky agreed easily. Bridget led the way with Jasper following happily behind her. “Jasper seems pretty comfortable with you.” Franky observed.

“I’ve known him since he was a pup,” Bridget told her. She handed over the dog to a tall tanned man with a mane of thick brown hair. “Franky, this is Richard, he lives a few streets away.” Franky nodded and gave a quick smile. She was looking curiously at the canvas propped against the wall. It was in the same style as the one she had seen earlier.

As she studied it a shadowy image emerged from the unstructured explosion of colour. “Is that a cunt?” she asked with surprise.

Bridget followed her gaze and smiled. “It is a naked woman with her legs spread, Franky,” she explained.

Franky could see it now Bridget had pointed it out. The shadowy figure was a naked woman on her back, propped on her elbows, looking out over her rounded belly to the world. Her legs were apart and her vagina in all its intricate detail was front and centre. How the artist had captured it just by putting dots of paint on a canvas, Franky couldn’t fathom. “It’s awesome,” she said in admiration. “What do you call it?” She asked suddenly. “The style I mean.” 

“It’s Pointillism,” the artist told her, watching her with interest, “if you like it then get Bridget to bring you over to my studio sometime. I have many more paintings there.”

“Richard’s entire backyard is his studio,” Bridget said with a laugh, “you have to see it.”

They moved the print up to Bridget’s bedroom and left it propped against the back wall. Franky looked around curiously. She took in the comfortable looking queen sized bed with its soft doona and pillows. The contrast to her hard prison mattress, thin blanket and wooden pillow was stark. She thought about what could happen next in that bed. She felt Bridget slip her arms around her waist. She turned in her arms, sliding her own hands around Bridget. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Bridget replied with a smile. “You okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” Franky grinned. She felt nervous suddenly. 

“Really?” Bridget looked sceptical. She could feel Franky’s energy was tightly contained. It was that raw energy that she had first noticed at Wentworth. When Franky had burst into the group therapy session to summon Boomer unceremoniously and later in the corridor when Bridget had had to speed up to keep pace with Franky’s long purposeful strides. 

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Franky blurted out suddenly. 

Bridget brushed her hair back and smiled. “Why do you think you’ll fuck anything up?” Franky was quiet. “Look, we don’t have to do anything, if you’re not ready.” Bridget offered. “We can just talk.”

Franky smiled, remembering their discussion in the library. She felt like an idiot. It was just sex, she told herself, which she had plenty of experience in. Except it wouldn’t be just sex with Bridget. She wanted to share something with this woman that was more than sex. 

Bridget took Franky’s hand and led her to the bed. She pulled off her boots and sat down on the soft, inviting doona, she patted the bed next to her and Franky, after a moment’s hesitation, joined her. “So, what did you want to talk about?” Franky asked with a sheepish grin, seeking safety in the familiar words.

“Tell me what’s important to you,” Bridget said and she lay back on the bed, getting comfortable, keeping her eyes on Franky.

“Not fucking up again,” Franky said immediately then she looked at Bridget and lay down next to her, kicking her boots off in the process. “You’re important, this is important, us,” she said quietly. 

Bridget smiled at her and shifted so she could put her arms around Franky. All those times at Wentworth when she had held back because of her position, because their relationship had to remain professional, because getting Franky out of there was more important than anything else, were worth it now. Her brief had been to provide support to those women in a period of chaos and disharmony. She had never expected to find someone like Franky lurking behind those prison gates. It had made her even more determined to use the skills and intelligence at her disposal to help Franky.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Bridget told her. “You asked me once if I would have kept quiet for any of the women, remember?” Franky nodded. “I did it for you, Franky, because I wanted to help you.”

“You did help,” Franky told her. “I’ve grown up since meeting you. I’ve taken responsibility for the things I’ve done, I know who I want to be and it’s not that girl.” She caressed Bridget’s cheek. “That’s down to you.”

“No Franky, it’s down to you.” Bridget said with a smile. She held Franky’s hand to her cheek, watching those green eyes as Franky absorbed her words. “I’m glad I could help you with it.”

Franky kissed her softly, tentatively, seeking a response from Bridget that matched her own cautious emotions. She wanted to take things slowly, to build something which would be beautiful and honest. She wanted to tell Bridget how she felt, not through words but through the pleasure she could bring her. She felt so close to her in that moment it felt natural to fuse their connection through touch.

She marvelled at Bridget’s trim, compact figure. She was smaller than Franky in both height and build. Her muscles were subtle but the tone was undoubtedly there, revealing to Franky that Bridget also worked out. She explored it leisurely, seeking her pleasure points, and finding the small tattoo on her right hip and the faint scar on her abdomen. Her earlier hesitation left her as she felt Bridget respond to her attentions. She used her fingers and her mouth, listening for and feeling Bridget’s response, experimenting as she built her to a crescendo and let her crash in never ending waves around her. She felt something she had never experienced before in any of her previous sexual encounters, she felt joy. 

Afterwards her eyes rested on Bridget’s naked torso. She ran her fingers across the faint scar. “You’ve had a baby,” she said quietly.

Bridget’s blue eyes darkened. “Yes, a boy, called Riley.”

Franky’s brow furrowed. “Where is he?”

“He died,” the words came out dragging their feet, refusing to comply with the truth of it. 

“I’m sorry,” Franky held her. She wondered about the circumstances. “How?” 

“At birth, there were complications, they did an emergency caesarean but he didn’t survive,” Bridget spoke the words without emotion, as though she had practiced them in her head until she knew them by rote. 

“Shit,” Franky had heard worse stories in prison. Women, like Doreen, who had killed their own babies through negligence. Those women were like Franky, products of their circumstances and their own neglect, fashioning their behaviour on what they had experienced themselves. To hear that Bridget, who was educated and in control of her life, could suffer the same tragedy was disheartening. 

“I came to terms with it a long time ago,” Bridget tried to reassure her. “We’ve all got baggage Franky. The best we can hope for is we don’t strangle ourselves with it.” 

“Yeah,” Franky agreed absently. 

The scar told Franky something important. A secure loving family was something that had eluded Franky all her life. The idea of it had always tantalised her, always out of reach, no matter how badly she had wanted it. The women in H Block, Liz, Doreen, Kya, and Boomer, they were the closest to a family she had known. 

Now she realised that, at some point at least, Bridget had also wanted a family.


	2. Erica

“This is a public relations disaster!” The Minister for Corrections, the Hon Benjamin Lawson MP, exclaimed with frustration. “How the hell did this psychopath get to be in charge of a fucking prison?” He looked across at his chief advisor for enlightenment.

“She was a Board appointment,” Erica Davidson informed him. “Brought in on the back of the work she’d done to eradicate drugs at other prisons.” She didn’t remind him that it was his hard line ‘no drugs in Victorian prisons’ election campaign strategy that had triggered Ferguson’s appointment.

“What the hell is the point of psychological testing if people like Governor Joan Ferguson can slip through the cracks?” The Minister was unhappy. He had been blindsided by a doorstop interview as he arrived at his offices which had been unplanned and unwelcome.

Erica assumed his question was rhetorical. “Can I make a recommendation?” she asked instead. “For handling the media on this?”

“By all means,” the Minister agreed magnanimously. He had a lot of faith in Erica’s media nous. In the two years she had been working for him, she had demonstrated a talent when it came to communicating the Government’s message. He had a communications advisor but most of the communication strategy decisions were made in consultation with Erica.

He had lured her away from a career in the legal profession at the beginning of his appointment as Minister for Corrections. Her law background combined with very recent experience working within one of the Victorian prisons was gold. He knew she had ambitions to enter parliament and was using her stint with him merely to establish a network and a reputation. It wasn’t loyalty he wanted from her though but her knowledge and intellect and advice on policy reform. It was a win-win arrangement in his view. The fact that she had a certain media savvy was an added bonus.

“I think we emphasise that Ferguson was an exception and not the rule. Then announce a review of the recruitment processes used at Wentworth to ensure a situation like this doesn’t happen again. You can direct the Women's Correctional Services Advisory Committee to undertake the review. They have been pushing for a more influential role. Then publish the report for complete transparency and adopt all of its recommendations.” Erica paused. “If there is a human interest angle resulting from the fire we should use it. I can contact the acting Governor and find out,” she offered.

“What if the recommendations from this review end up blowing out the budget?” the Minister asked pointedly. The truth of the matter was that while people wanted criminals safely behind bars, there were no votes in it and therefore little money.

“Have the Committee work with the Department to ensure any recommendations are cost neutral,” Erica suggested. “That way any new costs will have to be balanced by a reduction elsewhere.” She pitied the bureaucrats who would have to leverage the savings.

“All right, make it happen,” the Minister said definitively.

They spent the next twenty minutes discussing routine paperwork which had come up through the Department then Erica returned to her office. She spoke to the media advisor about the media release for the review then picked up her phone to call Wentworth.

It had been a little over two years since her departure from the prison. Her leaving had officially been her decision but the reality was Derek Channing had pressured her into resigning. Looking back on her tenure now she realised how naïve she had been although at the time she had considered herself a player. Two years working as a political advisor, however, had taught her a lot about game playing. She hadn’t missed Wentworth. On the contrary, as an advisor to the Minister her ability to influence public policy on prison rehabilitation programs was way beyond what she could ever have done as Governor. At the prison she could directly impact those women serving their time at Wentworth, in her current role she could potentially change the lives of all prisoners across the State. It had been fortuitous meeting Ben again right on the heels of her leaving Wentworth and then his being appointed as Minister for Corrections just over a month later. Their parents had a close friendship and she and Ben had spent many a summer vacation together in the beach house at Somers while growing up. Ben was five years older than Erica and this was his first Ministerial position. When he had called to tempt her away from law and into his office as his advisor it had been an opportunity she couldn’t ignore.

“This is Erica Davidson from the Minister’s office. Can you put me through to the acting Governor?”

She only had to wait a moment before she heard a familiar voice. “This is acting Governor Vera Bennett.”

“Hello Vera, how are you? It’s Erica Davidson. I’m calling from the Minister’s office.” She smiled into the phone, imagining Vera’s nervous flutterings when she realised it was the powers that be. She was surprised to hear a coolly competent Vera respond.

“Miss Davidson, how can I help you?”

Erica laughed lightly. “Please, it’s Erica,” she offered. “I am hoping you can help me. Given all the negative publicity the prison has been receiving lately, the Minister is keen to counter that with a positive story.”

“Yes?” Vera responded with her usual brevity. Erica grimaced into the phone. Vera had always been hard work.

“I was thinking of the fire,” Erica prompted. “Is there anything newsworthy from that, from a human interest perspective? I think I heard on the news that a baby had been trapped.”

“Yes, Doreen Anderson’s baby,” Vera informed her. “He was rescued safely.”

“Doreen's baby?" Erica was surprised to hear a familiar name. "I didn't realise. I'm so glad he is all right. Who rescued the baby? The fire fighters?”

“No, it was two prisoners actually, Bea Smith and Franky Doyle.” Vera explained.

Erica didn’t hear anything beyond Franky Doyle. Her mind immediately summoned up a vision of the feisty, attractive prisoner with her tattoos and her quick smile. She remembered that kiss. How she had resisted it, one moment fighting Franky without success and the next kissing her back. Then it was over and Franky had walked away leaving her shocked, confused, uncertain.

Vera was talking. “Sorry,” she interrupted, “did you say Franky got parole?”

“Yes,” Vera confirmed. “And Bea Smith is not exactly poster girl material. I’m not sure I can give you the story you’re looking for, Erica.” Was that satisfaction she could hear in Vera’s tone?

“I understand,” she conceded gracefully.

When she rang off her mind was not concerned with the lack of a positive story but instead with the green eyed prisoner who had found her way into Erica’s dreams and fantasies and spiked deep seeded desires. In those last few months at Wentworth when she had assumed the role of Governor, her relationship with Franky had become difficult. Franky had ignored the clear boundaries that defined their relationship. Erica had been torn between her genuine like of the prisoner, her frustrated desires, and her ambitions as Governor. Now though, Erica remembered the early days of their association when she and Franky had first met and developed a rapport through their tutoring sessions. Franky’s progress had been so startling, her intellect so agile, and her manner so attractive. They had spent hours together debating topics relating to Franky’s higher school certificate. Erica had liked the prisoner who commanded attention through her tattoos and her presence. She had fallen for the Franky brand which sold sex, swagger and sincerity in equal measures. It had almost been to her peril.     

Franky glanced at her phone. She'd be late, she realised. Her foot tapped restlessly. Despite railing against the rigid routine of prison, it had somehow sunk into her psyche so that now she felt slightly annoyed at being delayed. She shifted slightly in the hard functional chair of the waiting area and glanced up hopefully as someone appeared from the office area.

"Francesca Doyle?" asked an unfamiliar, untidy man in his early fifties, looking at her curiously.

Franky stood up. "Who are you?" She asked with a frown and a slight challenge in her voice. "Where's Lyn?"

"Sick," he answered her, turning away from her and leading her towards the office area. "She's got that flu that's going around. I'm covering her cases this week." He paused at the doorway of a small office and offered her a hand. "Tom Jenkins," he said.

Franky accepted the change with resignation. Even on the outside she was finding her ability to control certain situations was limited. She sat down in the visitor's chair and watched warily as Tom sat down across from her behind an untidy desk, piled with files and papers. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and lounged with deceptive ease. He pulled a file towards him and flicked through it.

She let her thoughts wander as she waited. Bridget came to mind immediately and Franky smiled. That had been happening a lot. She had spent hours in prison distracted by thoughts of the psychologist. It hadn’t mattered in there where boredom had been her constant companion. Thinking about Bridget had helped her through the tiresome hours in her cell, the repetitive tasks in the kitchen, even her gym sessions had been spiced up as a consequence. In those twenty-four hours after she had confessed to killing Meg Jackson, her mind had obsessed over the look on the psychologist’s face. It was the way she had closed her eyes that had given it away. Bridget had kept herself together and responded like the professional she was but Franky had known she had rocked the psychologist with that confession and disappointment had flooded through her. She had felt anxious and miserable, replaying the conversation and Bridget’s reaction in her mind until her warped perspective had convinced her she had messed it up and was going down for murder. She had known she had fucked up her future. It wasn’t until she had seen Bridget the next day that she realised she had underestimated the older woman and done her a disservice by doubting her.

Franky noticed the corrections officer had looked up and was peering at her over his reading glasses.

“Huh?” she said.

He repeated his statement. "I said, you are studying an advanced diploma in legal studies." Franky nodded. "How's that going?"

"Well, I'm going to be late to my tute today thanks to you," Franky couldn’t help saying. "So if we could make this quick," she suggested drily.

He ignored that and returned to the file. "It says here you've been looking for part-time work." He looked up again.

Franky nodded. "Yeah."

"Any luck?"

"I've got a couple of irons in the fire," she answered breezily. It wasn't about luck in Franky's view; it was about networking and creating opportunities. She didn't bother explaining that though, she didn't need a philosophical discussion, she needed to get going.

"But no job yet," he clarified.

"I said I'm working on it," Franky said defensively. "Jeez," she shook her head. "I've got a lot on my plate."

"You're living in Hawthorn," he peered at her again. "Nice area," he commented and Franky shrugged. "How are you affording it?" He asked and then added the obvious, "without a job?"

"I manage," Franky said vaguely. It was a sore point for her. She had been staying at Bridget’s place since she had got out on parole.

He waited. The young woman seemed edgy and difficult to pin down despite his direct questions. He saw that a lot. Most ex-cons had something to hide and distrusted the system. "We'll get through this a lot quicker if you just answer my questions," he said at last. "Then you can be on your way," he smiled.

"It’s my girlfriend’s place, okay?" Franky pulled her hands out of her pockets and opened her arms expansively to show she had nothing to hide.

He nodded. "It says here you are planning to transition your studies to a law degree next semester. What do you want to do once you've finished studying?"

"Become a lawyer," Franky said as though it was obvious. “I can’t do that with just an advanced diploma,” she pointed out.

He didn't respond and instead he tapped his keyboard. In the next second a small printer on his desk started up noisily. He grabbed the sheet of paper it produced and handed it to her.

"You're required to do community work while you are not fully employed," the parole officer pointed out.

Franky glanced at the paper. "I'm studying," she pointed out in return, "that makes me exempt." She tossed the paper onto the desk without reading it.

"Your hours at college don't meet the minimum requirement to be exempt and if you're not working then you should be doing four hours community work each week."

"Lyn told me I was close enough," Franky protested.

He frowned. "She shouldn't have said that. The guidelines are clear."

Franky knew that. She had read the guidelines for parole management. She knew it would be pointless to argue with him. She would wait until her next appointment and have the discussion with Lyn. Her case manager had a more holistic approach to case management. She knew Franky was committed to her study and serious about finding work. This arsehole just wanted to follow the rules. She snatched the paper from the desk and shoved it into her pocket without giving it a second glance.

"Fine," she said grudgingly, "anything else?"

"You can call me if you are having any problems or your circumstances change while Lyn is away," he handed over his business card.

"Sure," Franky had no intention of calling him.

Bridget Westfall, forensic psychologist, eyed the woman in front of her curiously. “I’m sorry,” she said with a confused frown and a slight tilt of her head. “How did you know Franky was living here?”

The younger, taller blonde looked momentarily put out before the poised professional front reappeared and she edged carefully past the question. “I was hoping to speak with her. Perhaps I could leave my card,” she pulled a business card from her purse and handed it over.

Bridget studied it. Erica Davidson. She knew the name. It was all through Franky’s file. Erica Davidson, the woman who had tutored Franky through her Higher School Certificate and continued that role when Franky began studying her advanced diploma. She was also Joan Ferguson’s predecessor.

“Is there a problem?” She asked slowly, looking up from the card and watching the woman carefully.

“No,” the other woman said immediately.

Erica wondered now if it wouldn’t have been better to leave a message on Franky’s voicemail. The corrections officer she had spoken to had given her both Franky’s current address and mobile number. He had been reluctant to do it but she had talked him round. Her position in the Minister’s office and her reassurance the information would be kept confidential had convinced him. Franky hadn’t answered her phone when Erica had tried calling her earlier that day so she had driven by the address supplied on the off chance Franky would be there.

“It’s just that you turn up out of the blue,” Bridget raised her eyebrows sceptically. “From the Minister’s office,” she left the statement hanging.

When Channing had briefed her about her position he had mentioned Erica Davidson. He had been concerned in the main about Ferguson and had wanted Bridget to make a surreptitious study of the Governor to alleviate his concerns he’d said. Bridget had realised immediately Channing’s ulterior motive was to get some proof of misconduct against Ferguson although she hadn’t known why. During that discussion Channing had alluded to the prison having had management issues for some time. He had mentioned Erica Davidson and how he had later intercepted letters from Franky to Erica which suggested an inappropriate relationship between the two. Now she waited to see if Erica would admit her association with Franky and Wentworth.

“There’s no problem,” Erica attempted to reassure her. “I want to speak to her about the fire at Wentworth Correctional Centre. I understand she was involved.” She had said more than she wanted to, more than she needed to. Franky would guess why she had contacted her, even if her gatekeeper was in the dark. “I’d like it if she would contact me,” she finished with.

“Why don’t you come in?” Bridget offered with a smile, stepping aside and keeping the door open. “Franky may not be far away.”

Erica hesitated only for a moment. Her curiosity was almost overwhelming her. The house in the affluent Melbourne suburb was not where she had expected to find Franky. She had almost suspected the corrections officer who had given her Franky’s details of misleading her. This woman, composed and questioning, left Erica unsure how she fitted into the picture.

“How do you know Franky?” She asked as she looked around the tidy lounge area, looking surreptitiously for signs of Franky’s presence. Then wondering what exactly she expected to see, a teal uniform, posters of naked women, law books? Her eyes returned to the older woman.

“Franky and I met at Wentworth,” Bridget told her. She sat down on the lounge, crossing her legs and sitting forward with her forearms resting relaxed across each other on her thigh. She looked expectantly at Erica and waited for her to sit in the armchair across from her. She smiled with the intent of putting Erica at ease. “Your name is familiar to me,” she said.

Erica was surprised by the admission. “Really?”

“You were the governor before Miss Ferguson,” Bridget prompted. “You knew Franky while she was inside.”

Erica shifted uncomfortably in her seat then crossed her legs to cover the momentarily lapse in composure. This woman, whoever she was, knew far more than Erica had realised. It was time to even the field. “I’m afraid I don’t recognise you,” she said with a slight frown. Could this woman have been connected to Wentworth during her time there?

Bridget didn’t offer her name although it was clear it was what the other woman was after. “You left two years ago, didn’t you?” Erica nodded. Bridget wanted to ask her where she had been for the last two years and why it was only now that she was getting in touch with Franky. If what Channing had told her was true, then this woman had meant something to Franky. Maybe she still did. Bridget realised she had to face that possibility. This woman turning up out of the blue may change everything between her and Franky.

“How is Franky?” Erica asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled awkwardly between them.

“She is doing much better,” Bridget told her. “How long have you worked for the Minister?” She had no intention of discussing Franky with Erica Davidson. If Franky wanted Erica to know how she had survived the last two years then it was up to Franky to tell her.

“Almost two years,” Erica explained. “He head-hunted me just after he was appointed to the position. I was lucky to get the opportunity.”

Bridget looked away briefly as though considering her words. When she looked back her blue eyes were serious. “I don’t know what you have in mind,” she paused, “but I wouldn’t want Franky to be hurt.”

Erica frowned. “That’s not my intention,” she said hastily. Then wondered why she had let the older woman fluster her. Her mobile rang. She glanced at the number. It was Ben. “I have to take this,” she told Bridget in an apologetic voice.

She stood up and walked towards the front door. Her pencil skirt and high heels emphasised her tall, slender figure. Bridget thought about Erica Davidson parading about Wentworth teasing women like Franky, with her unattainable sensual good looks. Although, perhaps not so unattainable, she remembered. Bridget heard Erica greeting her boss before she slipped into the hallway and the actual words became just a collection of low murmurings. She wondered at the procedures in place at the Department of Corrections that just allowed anyone calling up, claiming to be from the Minister’s office to obtain classified information on parolees. She heard Erica’s heels tapping sharply on the wooden floorboards in the hallway. She appeared moments later.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” Erica said as she put her phone back into her handbag. “It was nice to meet you,” she put out her hand with a questioning look.

“It’s Bridget,” she told her, taking the hand offered and giving it a firm but brief shake.

Erica nodded. “Please, ask Franky to call me.”

Bridget saw her out. As she walked down the path she could feel the older woman’s eyes on her. At the car she glanced back and sure enough, she was still standing in the doorway, observing her. She frowned. It had been an unsatisfying encounter.  

Impulsively Franky stopped at the fruit and vegetable shop on her way back home from university. She wanted to cook dinner for Bridget. It was a small gesture but important. Franky had no money to contribute to expenses. Bridget was essentially supporting her financially. She needed Corella pears, she decided, so she could make pears poached in white wine. She had a recipe that used star anise, peppercorns and bay leaves. It was unusual but the result was wickedly good. She hoped Bridget liked pears.

As she went to find the fruit she thought about her parole meeting. She needed a job. Her statement to Tom Jenkins about irons in the fire had been optimistic. People didn't want to employ ex-cons with a history of violence. Her very public crime didn't help her cause either. Celebrity status only took you so far it seemed then it became a burden. Franky felt its limitations keenly as people alluded to it in conversations which usually finished in dead ends. Now, she remembered, she would have to spend some of her precious free time doing community service. It was frustrating.

She saw the Corella pears and at the same time noticed a kid had his mouth planted against some of the fruit where it sat in the large fruit bin just at the perfect height for his six year old face.

“Hey kid,” she said on approach, “don’t put your mouth on the pears.”

Immediately a man appeared and glared at her pulling on the arm of the boy. “Don’t speak to my child like that,” he said aggressively. “It’s not your job to discipline him, it’s mine.”

“Fine,” Franky said raising her eyebrows at his manner. “Go right ahead, and tell him not to kiss the pears, will you?”

“This has nothing to do with you,” the father said angrily, unnecessarily so in Franky’s view, “just go away.”

“Fuck off,” Franky said with exasperation. She wasn’t going anywhere until she had some uncontaminated pears. She looked at the kid who was watching her with a startled expression.

“And don’t swear at my child either,” the tosser continued, standing between Franky and his son.

“Listen mate,” Franky was getting annoyed, she hadn’t fucking started this. “It’s not my fault your kid doesn’t know how to behave, is it?”

“People like you don’t have the first idea about parenting,” he sneered loudly, taking in her tattoos and general appearance.

“People like me?” Franky repeated in surprise. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about me,” she retorted.   “So don’t make assumptions.” 

Another customer approached and began selecting pears, inadvertently separating the two combatants. By the time the lady had finished, the man and his son had disappeared. “Fuckwit,” Franky said under her breath.

She selected her pears. Kids hadn’t been something she’d contemplated. When Kim had asked her once, with her straight girl mind, whether as a lesbian she regretted that she wouldn’t have kids she had just shrugged carelessly. She’d never had a desperate desire to have kids and she wouldn’t want to have one just because she could. Bridget, on the other hand, would make a good mum she thought randomly. Bridget was reliable and caring. A sudden image came into her mind of a little blonde toddler hanging on to Bridget’s thigh. She smiled. She could definitely see Bridget being a parent. If Bridget wanted a kid then she would be okay with that. The thought brought her to an immediate mental halt even as her feet continued towards the herbs. Where the fuck had that come from? They were barely together. Still in that exciting, exploratory phase and yet, Franky felt her connection with Bridget was more real than any relationship she had ever had.

At the cashier she handed over her last twenty. Things were getting desperate unless she asked Bridget for a loan, which she had no intention of doing.  Before prison she had charmed her way into jobs. On the inside she had always had some scam going that kept her liquid. This desert she was currently experiencing was both unfamiliar and disconcerting.

She found Bridget already at home. “Hi,” she said as she dumped her purchases on the bench so she had two free hands to pull the blonde into a satisfying, heart-felt hug. She felt Bridget return the pressure and Franky buried her face into Bridget’s hair inhaling the already familiar smell of her shampoo. “I missed you,” Franky murmured. She was learning to be more open with how she felt. Bridget nurtured the seeds of Franky’s trust, feeding them carefully and tenderly with respect and love. She pulled back to look into Bridget’s eyes. Those blue eyes had seen Franky at her worst and still they held warmth and humour. She watched them close as she leant in and kissed those deliciously soft lips. She would have continued, expanding her attention to Bridget’s throat, ignoring her plans to make dinner for a more enjoyable past time, but the older woman pulled back slightly.

Franky stopped but did not release Bridget from her embrace. “What is it?”

“I thought we could talk,” Bridget said, watching to see how Franky felt about that. “Is that okay?”

Franky grinned, a little curious. “Sure,” she agreed. “I want to cook you dinner though.” She insisted with a frown and she was rewarded with a laugh.

“Okay,” Bridget agreed. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

Franky let go and Bridget went to the fridge to find some beer. She gave an open one to Franky and moved to the other side of the island bench so she could watch Franky while she worked. “You like pears, right?” Franky asked, looking up from her task of peeling one with a paring knife. Bridget admired her skills as she removed the skin alone leaving the flesh of the pear unmarked. She nodded and took a sip of beer. “So, what did you want to talk about?” Franky asked.

“Someone came to see you today,” Bridget told her, her voice devoid of emotion.

“Who?” Franky glanced up curiously. Bridget was watching her, making sure she had her full attention. “Gidget?” Franky’s hand came to rest on the bench, the knife still clasped in it.

Bridget sighed. She didn’t know how Franky would react to her news. She didn’t know how this conversation would end. She knew she was vulnerable. At no point though, from the moment Erica Davidson had handed over her business card, had she contemplated not telling Franky.

“Erica Davidson,” Bridget told her. She saw immediately the name meant something to Franky. The stunned look followed by a distant one as Franky recalled the woman from her memory.

“What did she want?” Franky asked after a moment. Her tone was careless but Bridget knew how well Franky could mask her emotions when she wanted to or misrepresent them as something else.

“She left her business card. She wants to speak to you, about the fire at Wentworth, she said,” Bridget added. “She works at the Minister’s office.”

Franky was silent. She returned to the task of peeling pears. She thought about the fire. She could have died in that fire. There was a moment when the roof came crashing down when she thought she would die. Her soul would never have known freedom and her heart would never have experienced the joy she felt with Bridget. Even now she couldn’t believe what she had risked. “I don’t want to talk about the fire.” She said suddenly. She looked up and Bridget saw anguish in her green eyes. “I can’t.”

“Is that why Erica really wants to see you though?” Bridget asked softly. Franky looked confused. “There’s something else you should know,” she said slowly. She waited but Franky just continued to watch her, quietly waiting in turn. “When I started at Wentworth I was briefed by Derek Channing. He held serious concerns about the welfare of the women and the mismanagement which had been rife for some time.” Bridget took a breath. “He told me about your letters, Franky,” she sighed, “the ones you wrote to Erica Davidson.”

Franky shook her head in disbelief. “That fucking bastard,” she said with an angry calm. Those letters to Erica, which not only did Channing not post but then read, had been private, personal, for Erica’s eyes only. She thought about what she had said in them, how she’d said it and then she thought about Channing reading those words and overlaying them with his own sleazy thoughts. “Did he tell you what was in them?” She asked eventually.

“No,” Bridget reassured her, “just the nature of them.” She chose her words carefully. “There was something between you two and now, suddenly, she wants to see you. How do you feel about that?”

“I dunno,” Franky admitted. She had given up on preparing dinner. She was leaning against the sink with her arms crossed as though to protect herself. Erica had walked out of her life two years ago without even a good-bye. The kiss they had shared had given Franky hope that all she had sensed about Erica was true. She had kissed her back. There had been more in all their intellectual and actual flirting than just Franky’s imagination. The attraction hadn’t just been one-sided. It hadn’t been her ego talking. Those days after Erica had left had been some of the darkest of Franky’s sentence. The desperate declarations and desires she had penned in those letters hadn’t reached their intended recipient. Erica had never received them. She hadn’t known how Franky felt about the kiss and its significance.

“If there is something between you two,” Bridget broke the silence. “It is probably better that you find out now rather than later.”

Franky heard in those words how brave Bridget was. She didn’t avoid difficult conversations or situations. She met them head on. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she answered although she felt somehow she already had.

“Franky,” Bridget said her name with a long drawn out sigh. She could hear the emotion that was etched in every syllable. It only took seconds for Franky to bridge the gap between them and take Bridget in her arms. She held her, comforting her even though she was the one causing the pain.

“I care about you,” Bridget said eventually, “and I want us to have a chance, but that can only happen if you know it’s what you want too.” She gave Franky a hug. “Okay?”

Franky felt something was slipping out of her control. “Yeah,” she mumbled into Bridget’s hair. 

She felt the older woman slip something into the back pocket of her jeans. She knew it was Erica’s business card. 

And she knew she would call her.


	3. Two Years Overdue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about calling this chapter 'better late than never'...sorry about the delay.  
> Thanks for sticking around:)  
> Win

The phone was ringing. Franky wasn’t sure how much credit she had left. Hopefully enough for this call at least. She hadn’t called Erica immediately. She had waited. Bridget’s news had been completely unexpected. It had triggered memories and questions which she had thought were buried.

“Hello?” Franky didn’t recognise the woman’s voice but then she had never spoken to Erica over the phone.

“Erica?”

“She’s driving, can I take a message?” Franky thought suddenly of the five weeks she had spent in the slot waiting for a visit from Erica.

“Nah,” Franky replied. She would ring her back.

“Doyle, make calls on your own time.”   Franky looked up to see her supervisor staring at her. She waved a hand in acknowledgement and killed the call. “Next time I’ll make you work the extra time,” he told her.

Community service consisted of litter duty for Municipal Services.   Her crew were all parolees except the supervisor Stan. He spent most of the morning on his phone organising his wife’s massage business and making inappropriate references to women’s anatomy. He was a small man who liked to lord it over society’s losers. Franky gave him the finger when he had turned his back to make another call.

She shoved her phone into the pocket of her fluoro jacket and resumed the tedious task of litter collection. She spent the time thinking about Erica Davidson. It had been two years since she and the ex-governor had engaged in their ritual mating dance where Franky had shown off her colourful plumes and Erica had shown zero interest in them, until the kiss. Erica had revealed herself in that moment. Until then Franky had pursued her without any encouragement, with only hope and her own instincts. Things had been left unresolved between them.

Her phone rang. She glanced across to Stan and saw he was in the truck and still on the phone. She picked up the call. “Hello Miss Davidson,” she said with a smile. She squinted as the sun suddenly appeared from behind a cloud. “I hear you’ve been desperate to get hold of me.” She was nervous and she sought safety in the tone and words familiar to their relationship.

They arranged to meet at a café in the city after their respective work days were done. Franky arrived early. The ex-governor was late. Franky checked her phone but there was no message. She would wait another ten minutes she decided then she would leave. Except she didn’t leave, ten minutes then fifteen passed and Franky remained glued to her chair, glancing with nervous anticipation each time the door to the café opened. She had waited two years for this conversation and she wasn’t leaving until she had had it or Erica told her she wasn’t coming. She sipped her water and tapped the heel of her boot against the chair leg.

The last few days had been hectic with Franky trying to fit in community service with her uni schedule and three job interviews. Bridget had been contacted by Derek Channing and asked to take up her old position at Wentworth. Today had been her first day back at the prison. Franky hadn't seen her yet to ask if she'd had a chance to see how Boomer was doing.

She thought Bridget might text her but her phone had been quiet and Franky realised Bridget was giving her space. It was that maturity in Bridget, which Franky had already noticed, coming to the fore and Franky's respect for her increased further. Bridget didn't play games. If their relationship was going to survive and flourish it would be because there was mutual respect and honesty. It frightened Franky and excited her at the same time. Adult relationships weren't something she had a lot of experience in but with Bridget she knew it was something she was willing to try. She wanted to try.

Suddenly she saw Erica. She was standing at the door, her eyes searching the crowded café. Even if Franky hadn’t been looking out for her, she would have noticed her. The blonde was eye-catching even in her conservative business attire. Her long blonde hair was cut in long layers with soft waves that complemented the defined line of her jaw. Her long legs emphasised by impossible heels. Erica had always liked her shoes, she remembered. She looked classy and sexy and feminine.

Erica saw her at that moment. The sudden flash of surprise in her expression made Franky realise how different she must look out of her teal uniform without her ink on display. She was wearing black jeans and boots. Her jacket was also black.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said when she neared the table where Franky was sitting. "I was called into a meeting at the last minute." She paused then added. "I'm glad you waited." She sat down across from Franky. A waitress approached. “I’ll have a cappuccino,” she told her then looked enquiringly at Franky who shook her head.

Once the waitress had left it was only the two of them. As close as when they had sat across the table in the library at Wentworth, and yet as distant as parole had once seemed.

“You wanted to see me,” Franky prompted.

“About the fire at Wentworth,” Erica said, trotting out the excuse she had given Bridget. “I thought you might be willing to talk about it, to the media.”

“Well, I’m not,” Franky said with a dismissive shake of her head. She sighed and slouched back in her chair. “If that is all you wanted then you could have sent that assistant who answered your phone for you when I rang.” She pointed out. “So why are you really here?”

Franky hadn’t agreed to meet to talk about the fire. This conversation was two years overdue in her view. Even if the reasons for wanting it had changed in that time, there was no doubt in her mind that she wanted to walk away from this table having resolved some of the questions she still had in her mind about Erica.

“All right,” Erica conceded. “Maybe I do want to talk about what went on between us in Wentworth.”

“You mean the kiss?” Franky asked directly. "Where you kissed me back," she added. "All that bullshit about it being in my head as though you couldn't feel it too but you did, didn't you?" Her green eyes were dark and penetrating. She wanted Erica to admit her attraction and acknowledge what had happened between them.

Erica remembered the kiss. Not the end when she had finally given into temptation but the beginning and how it had played out. Franky had been taunting her and when Erica had tried to put a stop to it that was when Franky had forced her against the wall and held her there against her will.

"You mean when you assaulted me?" She asked in a low voice. She saw Franky's expressive green eyes flicker at those words.

"You kissed me back," Franky protested. "It wasn't just my ego talking, you were attracted to me, we had something, then you just left without a word." Franky felt the frustration she had felt back then well up inside her again.

"It doesn't matter how it ended," Erica said quickly, dismissively. It was the intent that was important.

"Of course it mattered," Franky exclaimed. "You were in complete denial, Erica!"

"So you were just trying to make a point, were you?"

Erica's coffee arrived at that moment and she sat back breaking eye contact. It gave Franky some time to regroup. All the soul searching she had done in those dark days after Erica had left when she had questioned again her worth. Believing all over again that she had no value because people she cared about continued to abandon her without word, without warning. Never once, in all that, had she considered that kiss from Erica's perspective. She had been obsessed with proving to Erica that she shouldn't, couldn't deny what was between them. She had been so hurt by Erica's withdrawal. Five weeks in the slot without so much as a visit then Erica had waved that ring in her face and redefined their relationship in a matter of moments.  It had been a turning point.

"I was angry," Franky said at last. "You just shut me down, withdrew, without any explanation. All that time we had spent together, and you just acted like it meant nothing, like I meant nothing." She tried to explain her feelings of frustration. "I cared about you."

Erica shook her head. "No Franky, people who care don't do what you did. If you really cared about me, as you claim, then what was that? You force yourself on me then smile like it was some kind of victory?" She dismissed Franky's claim in an instant. "It was aggressive, it was vengeful, it was disrespectful, and there was nothing caring about it." It still angered her when she thought about their last interaction and what had happened. She had thought she could control Franky, she had forgotten that violence was what put the other woman in prison in the first place. It was her go to position.

Franky was silent. The truth of the matter was that she had been about proving a point. For Franky aggression was just part of the game. She was a fighter. Her points were made with violence more often than with words. Even as a lover she was often aggressive. In her relationships with Kim and Jodie she had been the dominant alpha, often channelling her aggression into the act of sex. Both had been played out on her terms and neither of them had questioned that. Even Kim’s defiance had been directed at Bridget not Franky.

“Okay,” Franky said eventually, “maybe I was.” She shifted in her seat sliding her bum forward and slouching, crossing her arms against her chest in a typical defensive pose. There was no joy or relief in that admission. She felt uncomfortable. The whole conversation was uncomfortable. The conversation wasn't going the way she had expected. Her question why Erica had just deserted her appeared to be redundant now. It was perfectly clear that Erica felt she was the injured party.

Erica nodded, acknowledging Franky’s words and what they meant. It wasn’t an apology but it was a concession. She felt some of the righteous indignation she’d been feeling fade away. She had forgotten what talking to Franky was like. Their discussions had usually been feisty encounters regardless of the subject matter with neither of them being prepared to give ground. Both desperate to maintain control of the dialogue, Erica because her role dictated it should be that way and Franky because it gave a small moment of power in her powerless world. Some days though, it had been exhausting as much as exhilarating.

“You were in denial though, weren’t you?” Franky persisted, her tone more curious than demanding. She genuinely wanted to know where Erica’s head had been during those last months they were at Wentworth together.

Erica took a sip of her coffee then another. Eventually she put down her cup and looked at Franky. “Did you ever stop to think that I might have had my reasons for not responding to your charm?” She dwelt on the last word with sarcasm. It was clear from her expression Franky had never considered that. “Everyone has the right to feel a certain way, be confused or clear in their heads, be ready or not. Just because you’re ready for something, doesn’t necessarily mean I am or even have to be.”

This was the conversation they never had, because of circumstance. Two years had given them both an opportunity to reflect and gain some perspective. “So what if I was confused,” she continued, “maybe I still am. There’s nothing wrong with that. And yet instead of you showing me understanding and patience, I get that!” There was disgust in Erica’s tone now and Franky felt its sting. “People evolve differently, Franky. We all have different journeys to get somewhere, even the same place. You were out of line,” she said plainly. “So sorry if I don’t believe all those declarations you made about caring.”

Blue eyes met green. Moments passed. Franky wanted to get up. Suddenly the chair she was in was as much of a prison as Wentworth had been. She didn’t want to be there. She wanted to pace like she had in Bridget’s office when the therapist had made her face some truths about herself that she would have rather kept hidden. She stayed where she was though and absorbed Erica’s words and their implications.

When she had first met Erica she had been desperate to impress the sexy smart female who had no business being in a women's prison.  She had sparred with her on an intellectual level because, despite the attraction, Erica had never let her breach the physical boundary.  She had realised somewhere along the way that engaging her brain was as appealing as the sexual tension between them.  To have a conversation that asked Franky to challenge her thinking and speak in concepts instead of just witty one liners was addictive.  Erica had been addictive.  The interest she had shown in her progress had given Franky a desire to excel and make something of herself.  It was something she had never considered until Erica had come into her life.  When Franky had spoken at the Our Journey event, underneath the humour and bravado, she had been making a sincere declaration to Erica about how she felt.  Those months after Erica had left had been so difficult.  Her world had rocked off kilter until she had lost sight of the sunlight and faded into grey.  Her behaviour had been driven by anger and desperation until she no longer recognised herself.  She had played the game like she had nothing to lose and cared about no one including herself.

“I did care,” she insisted in a low tone.

Erica shook her head adamantly. “How you treated me,” she said in a frustrated tone, “is not how someone who cares treats a person they care about! Do you even know that, Franky?” She asked with exasperation.

Then Franky saw it. The way she had treated Erica was shit. Erica had helped her and she had returned the favour by bullying her. She had let the bully take over. She was capable of mature interactions when she chose, with Liz, with Bea, and with Sophy and yet with Erica anger and frustration had been stronger. Her intention and her approach that day in Erica’s office had nothing to do with caring or any declaration of love. She had been making a point, with as much subtlety as a street fighter. There had been nothing rational or adult about it.  

She thought about her relationship with Bridget and how different it was, how different she was in it. It made her realise how shallow those liaisons with Kim and Jodie had been. She had manipulated those relationships to suit her own limited capacity to trust and be with someone as an equal in a caring relationship. It was laughable how shallow they had been, and yet she only realised it after experiencing the richness of a relationship where trust and respect were mirrored. Bridget had shown her the difference. She had opened her heart to Franky.

She leant forward. Her expressive green eyes, emphasised by eyeshadow, held regret. “I’m sorry,” she told Erica. “What I did was fucked up,” she acknowledged.

“Yes,” Erica said, “yes, it was.” Although she didn’t indicate it in any way, it was a relief to her that Franky could see the problem with her behaviour. It showed Erica how far she had come in her rehabilitation.

Franky watched as Erica finished her coffee. There were still questions she wanted answered. She still didn’t know how Erica felt beyond how she felt about that kiss. Franky had walked out of Wentworth to a new life, a better life than the one she had had previously. Her relationship with Bridget was new but already it felt different, stronger than any others she had been in. She felt different in it, better and stronger and happier because of it. Bridget was honest and open with her. She liked to talk which left Franky with less time to fret about things that might be bothering her. She felt hopeful about her future. The question of Erica was now the only thing stopping her from moving forward. Was what they had shared real or was it something manufactured in Franky’s head through wishful thinking?

“Why did you kiss me back then?” She asked suddenly, “if you felt like that.”

There was no point denying it. Erica had relived the kiss until she knew it by heart, as though she had slowed it down frame by frame and analysed every moment of it. She had kissed back and by doing so she gave into her attraction and desire for Franky.

“I wanted to,” she said simply. “I was attracted to you, and I was curious. I couldn’t help myself.”

Franky was disappointed. If Erica had just been exploring some side of herself to satisfy her curiosity then Franky had her answer. “Kiss your local lesbian and get a quick thrill,” she said cynically.

A part of the reason Erica was so attracted to Franky was the danger. Franky simmered with barely controlled anger and aggression. Franky was the antithesis of Mark in every respect. She tempered it with charm and the combination was irresistible. Erica had been furious about the kiss, not because Franky had been rough with her, on the contrary, but because Franky's motive had been to win a point against her. It angered her more when Franky proceeded to claim she cared about her when that kiss had indicated the exact opposite.

“There's something else,” Franky said slowly. "You left me in that slot for five weeks, Erica, when you knew I hadn't given Toni those drugs." Franky saw a flash of something in Erica's eyes. "You just left me there without a word. I waited for you to come and see me, to at least explain why, but you didn't."

"There were reasons why I couldn't let the truth get out," Erica said quietly, "good reasons. I didn't mean for you to get caught in the middle of it."

"I was angry at the time," she continued as though Erica hadn’t spoken, "but getting slotted wasn't what hurt the most," Franky said dismissively. "What hurt, Erica, was that you just left me there."

Erica saw then the consequences of that decision. Franky the abandoned girl had become the angry woman and Erica had repeated the same pattern reinforcing to Franky once again that people important to her would blame her and leave her for reasons she didn't understand.  

"I'm sorry," she said with sincerity. She rubbed a hand across her brow. She understood better why their relationship had deteriorated. Franky had told her she had changed. Her ambition had driven her behaviour and her relationships had suffered as a consequence. Franky had suffered. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I forgot what was important." It sounded lame even to her ears.

"You were the first person who believed in me. You made me see I could be better than I was. I wanted to believe you cared about me."

"I did care about you," Erica told her. "You were asking for more than I could give though."

She had fantasised about Franky. The prisoner had brought out in her desires which she had buried since that visit to the Velvet Curtain when she had found herself intrigued by the idea of bondage and being with a woman. As much as she had been furious at Franky for forcing herself on her, there was a part of her deep down that had been excited by it. In Erica’s conservative world differences were suppressed and conformity was celebrated. The idea of breaking that mould, however tantalising, was almost impossible to act on. All those times in Wentworth when Franky had pushed her to reveal her feelings, she had resisted because of her role in the prison and because of who she was.

Franky's green eyes watched her for a moment. "And now?"

"Does it matter?" Erica asked. "Aren't you with someone?" Franky frowned. "That woman you're living with, she seemed concerned about me and protective of you."

Franky thought suddenly of Bridget. She was so different to Erica. "Yeah, we're together," she admitted. "Bridget helped me to get my parole." Erica wondered about that. “Does that bother you?”

Erica’s phone vibrated on the table. She glanced at the text message then back to Franky. “I have to go,” she said. “It’s the Minister,” she offered in explanation.

Franky shrugged and sat back. “Okay,” she said.

Erica stood up. She had been curious to see if outside of that highly charged environment of prison where danger thrived whether Franky would still have the same appeal. Even after two years she could feel Franky’s magnetism although the darked haired woman had not flirted once with her. “Do you think I could see you again?” She asked suddenly. She looked unsure. “Think about it.” She pleaded then said good-bye before Franky could answer.

Bridget woke up suddenly when the front door banged. She’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for Franky to come home. She sat up and looked at the clock on the oven and realised it was only 10.00 pm. Her day had been busy.

"Hi," she said, turning her head to watch Franky enter the room. She still felt groggy from sleep. She noticed Franky was soaked through and leaving little puddles on the floor boards. "Did you walk home?" She asked with surprise.

"Yeah," Franky said, she was pulling off her jacket and boots. “I missed the bus,” she explained. Then she stripped off her jeans and top until she was standing in her bra and panties. The house was warm but Franky felt chilled to the bone. "I need a hot shower." She dumped her wet things in the laundry on the way to the bathroom.

When she emerged ten minutes later, Bridget had made her a hot tea. "How did it go?" She asked as she handed the mug to Franky, watching for signs that might indicate her mood.

Franky took the mug but instead of drinking it she just nursed it between her hands. The room was only lit by a single lamp in the corner of the room and Franky was thankful for the dim lighting. She felt emotionally drained and vulnerable. On the walk home she had relived the conversation with Erica and its revelations. It had started to rain and when she finally approached the townhouse she was drenched and disgruntled. Then she saw Bridget had left a light on in the front porch. It looked welcoming and her heart had lifted. The concern in Bridget’s tone affected her as well. She shook her head and sat down on the couch putting her mug on the coffee table.

Bridget sat down next to her. “What is it?” she asked. She hadn’t known what to expect when Franky returned from her meeting with Erica Davidson. She had feared two things as a result of the meeting. One was that Franky would not return that night. Equally though she feared reliving those experiences in prison might well have caused Franky to lose some of the ground she had gained.

Franky just shook her head and pressed her lips together as though she was tightly controlling her emotions. Her eyes were dark and restless. Bridget put a hand on her thigh. “Hey,” she said softly, “it’s okay, why don’t you tell me?”

Franky put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She could see Bridget’s hand still on her thigh, her pressure firm and reassuring. “I’m just like her,” she said eventually. “I’m violent, even with people I care about and I drive them away because of who I am.” Of all the things they had talked about, it was Erica’s scathing assessment of her behaviour during the kiss which had resonated the most with Franky. She took on board the criticism because it was easy to believe. “No Franky, you’re not,” Bridget refuted firmly. “You’ve never been like that with me.” She pointed out. “You’ve been caring and respectful.”

“I will be,” Franky said bitterly. “I’m just like my mother. I’m violent and self-destructive just like her,” she spat out the last words with self-loathing.

“What happened between you and Erica that makes you think that?” Bridget asked. She wasn’t ready for Franky to stand up so suddenly and begin prowling. She watched with concern. Franky seemed as though she could fly around the room like a deflating balloon at any moment.

“I kissed her,” Franky said in frustration.

“Sorry?” Bridget hadn’t been expecting that. “Tonight?” Bridget was feeling less like a therapist and more like a girlfriend. The idea that Franky had kissed this woman hurt and disappointed her. Even though she was not naïve and had recognised it as a possibility, it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Franky stopped pacing and looked at her blankly. “No, not tonight,” she said at last. “Two years ago, at Wentworth, and she kissed me back,” she added although she knew now that it didn’t justify her behaviour. She resumed her pacing.

Bridget smiled slightly. “Oh,” she murmured. “How does kissing her make you think you are anything like your mother?”

“Because I forced her, I assaulted her,” Franky repeated Erica’s words. “She never came to see me or wrote to me because I fucked it up.” She sounded so angry with herself.

“Did she say that?” Bridget’s eyes followed Franky’s movements.

“She didn’t have to, it was obvious,” Franky muttered. Suddenly she felt exhausted. “I’m no good.”

“Yes, you are,” Bridget assured her. “That happened two years ago. You are not the same person you were then, Franky,” she pointed out. She stood up and went to her. “Come here,” she said taking her into an embrace and comforting her, doing what she couldn’t do the day Franky confessed to killing Meg Jackson. “You are on a journey, remember?” she told her quietly as she held the younger woman stroking her back soothingly. She felt Franky’s arms pull her close. “Part of that journey is accepting the past cannot be changed and learning from it. Evolution is never easy and it takes time, don’t beat yourself up each time you are reminded how far you’ve come, okay?”

Bridget’s words washed over her, calming her, reassuring her, and she felt tears well up and then one rolled ever so silently down her cheek. She held on tighter. “Yep,” she whispered.

They stayed like that, Bridget rubbing her back rhythmically, until Franky stopped crying. “Hey,” Bridget said when Franky sniffed. She pulled away and saw Franky’s eyes were red. “Careful of the jacket,” she said teasingly.

“I’m a big fan of this jacket,” Franky said with the frail humour that comes after tears, looking at the royal blue motorcycle style jacket. Her eyes shifted from the clothing to Bridget. “And its owner,” she added quietly. “Don’t ever leave me.” Her green eyes were imploring.

Bridget held her gaze. “I won’t,” she said with quiet certainty.  

Franky caressed her cheek then kissed her softly on the lips. She trailed kisses along Bridget’s jawline then whispered with a warm breath in her ear. “I want to make love to you.” It was a request.

Bridget heard in Franky’s tone her desire to prove to herself that she was capable of a loving, caring, respectful relationship. Her heart went out to her. This girl wore ink like warriors carried weapons, flexed her muscles as though they were peacock feathers, and could charm the yellow crest from a sulphur-crested cockatoo. Yet despite this armoury, it was only her heart and her mind that could protect her from the demons that battled within her.


	4. The Old Foe

Bridget woke early. The dawn light was struggling to slide between the slats. She didn't have to get up yet. The winter was hanging around this year. The air was still cool but under the covers it was warm and cosy. She rolled onto her side pulling on the doona as she did so. It disturbed Franky and she watched as the dark head turned away from her. Sometimes Franky would dream and mutter in her sleep incoherent words. Now though she was quiet.

Bridget watched her. Franky had not spoken again of her meeting with Erica Davidson. The evening she had returned from it she had been so fragile. Whatever Erica had been to Franky, it was clear from her words that night that their relationship had disintegrated at some point. Franky was nursing wounds from their encounter. She hid it well but Bridget was trained to see past people's armour. It worried her on two fronts, the first being Franky had lost ground with her rehabilitation and the second because it meant Franky still cared. Erica Davidson had got under Franky's skin and Bridget didn't know what that meant in the long term.

She reached out and caressed the warm back. Part of her wanted to wake Franky so she could look into those green eyes and be held by those toned arms. She didn't though. She closed her eyes and thought about her day.

Wentworth was in disarray. Many of the women had been transferred to a low security facility as some of the cell blocks were out of commission since the fire. Vera, as acting governor, had asked Bridget to run some group therapy sessions to help the prisoners deal with the emotional distress caused by the fire. Doreen Anderson was the one most traumatised by it. Almost losing her baby had resulted in Doreen never wanting to let him out of her sight, to the point where she wouldn't sleep for fear he would be gone when she woke. When she did sleep she had recurring nightmares. For the most part the women were just put out by the changes to their routine.

The environment generally was more stable under Vera's leadership than it had been under the control of Joan Ferguson. Bridget found her requests and advice being taken seriously by the acting Governor where previously she had been largely ignored. She was enjoying her work there. The prisoners were always more challenging than her paying clients but the rewards were tenfold when she saw the fruits of her labour. None presented quite the same challenges and difficulties personally for her as Franky Doyle had but then Franky was special.

She opened her eyes to find green eyes watching her thoughtfully. She smiled impulsively. "What is it?" She asked when Franky continued to watch her with a serious expression.

"Nothing," Franky answered immediately. Bridget didn't say anything. She just waited. She knew Franky's first instinct was to be reticent. "I was just wondering," she said after a moment, "where I'd be if I hadn't met you."

Bridget put her hand against Franky's cheek. She had wondered the same thing herself. Would Franky have continued on her path of self-destruction?   Or were her survival instincts strong enough to pull her away from the precipice? "Don't worry about that," she said softly. "You did, and I'm so glad you did." Those green eyes blinked as Franky absorbed her words. Bridget felt she was on her own precipice and perhaps she was already falling, head over heels for this girl.

"I want to find my dad," Franky said with quiet determination. Her eyes were deep dark pools of remembrance.

Bridget hadn't expected Franky's next words to be those but they didn't surprise her either. Franky was like an alcoholic at step nine of the AA program. "I'll help you," was all she said. She slipped her arms around Franky and held her tight, breathing in deeply. She loved how Franky smelt. It was the coconut moisturiser she used. It reminded Bridget of a lazy tropical island holiday. The first time she had smelt it was in her office when Franky had leant over her and tried to play her games with the psychologist. It had distracted her for a moment. Then sense and sanity and professionalism had prevailed.

"I don't even know where to start," Franky muttered.

Bridget pushed herself onto an elbow and rested her head in her hand. "I do," she said confidently.

Franky looked at her sceptically. "Where?"

"Your dad came to see you while you were in prison, didn't he?" She asked. Bridget was sure she had read about it in Franky's file. Erica Davidson had left detailed notes on Franky.

"Yeah, so what?" Franky said dismissively. She couldn't see where this was leading.

Bridget smiled. "So he would have signed the visitor's register and listed his address," she pointed out.

"That was over two years ago," Franky wasn't convinced.

"Well," Bridget placed a hand in Franky's chest between her breasts. "You've got to start somewhere, so why not there? You never know, he may still live there." She raised her eyebrows and gave a small almost flirty smile. No, not flirty, Franky thought suddenly, it had something else at its core.

Bridget Westfall was a little cheeky, Franky realised suddenly. "All right then genius," she challenged, "how am I going to get to it?"

"You're not," Bridget told her. "I am." Franky looked reluctantly impressed. "Told you I'd help," Bridget couldn't help adding.

Franky laughed suddenly. Without warning she managed to put Bridget onto her back. "I better thank you then," she said with a grin, pushing the doona off them and straddling Bridget. "Wouldn't want you to think I'm not grateful," she murmured as she pushed up Bridget's top and put a warm mouth over one nipple and a warm hand over the other.

Bridget smiled. "Are you going to make me late?" The last word ending in an unexpected gasp as Franky's free hand moved lower.

"Hope so," Franky murmured. She left Bridget in no doubt of her intentions. She didn't know what the day might bring, and that was the difference between freedom and prison. Those endless days of structured routine, broken only by visits to the slot, had taught Franky a lesson in patience. Now she showed Bridget what she had learnt, that some things were worth waiting for.

When Erica arrived at work just after 7am she had Franky on her mind. She left a voicemail message for Correctional Services to call her back. While she was waiting for the public service to start their day, she called the Attorney General's office to pull in a favour. Precisely at 9am she spoke to Franky's parole officer. Then her work consumed her and it wasn't until 4pm that she shut down her computer, collected her hand bag and keys, and stood up.

"I'm on the mobile if he needs me," she told the Minister's personal secretary. "I won't be back today."

She drove slowly down Brunswick Street until she reached Edinburgh Gardens and found what she was looking for. She pulled into the first available car space and switched off the engine but she didn't get out of her car. Instead she watched the small group of fluro clad workers who were situated a distance away. She couldn't recognise Franky in the group.

Erica had waited before she decided to contact Franky again. She had wanted to give herself time to consider what that meeting between them meant to her. She wasn't sure where it had left them. So she immersed herself in work and made no decisions. Until today.

She stepped out of her car and walked across the soft grass. Her heels sank into the earth slightly, slowing her progress. There was a wolf whistle as she approached. She was surprised and annoyed by it. Were there still men about who thought that was acceptable, she wondered. She remembered the Prime Minister's speech about the unacceptable level of domestic violence in Australia. Clearly there was.

She saw Franky then. The fluro jacket was too big on her slim frame. She had her head down, concentrating on her work, and she hadn't seen Erica. It wasn't until she was almost upon her that she realised Franky had earphones in. She touched her shoulder lightly.

She didn't expect Franky to swing around so suddenly and grab her arm. She gasped. The grip was like steel encircling her wrist, biting against her bone, crippling in its power. For a moment Erica glimpsed the violent prisoner she had once known. Her eyes must have shown her shock. Franky registered the look and stepped away, dropping her arm immediately.

"What are you doing here?" She asked. It was an unfriendly greeting and it disconcerted Erica.

"I needed to see you," she explained without reacting to the tone. "Your parole officer told me where you'd be."

"Well, I'm working," Franky told her shortly. She glanced towards Stan and saw him watching curiously. Her reaction to Erica showed Franky how much the prisoner she'd once been was still lurking within her. She didn't appreciate the reminder.

"You finish any minute," Erica replied, showing she knew more than she had let on. Franky didn't respond. She just went back to collecting litter. "I've got a proposition for you," she said after a moment.

Franky stopped what she was doing then and suddenly looked at Erica. "I don't get it, Erica," she said at last. "You accused me of assault, remember?" There was frustration, anger and even hurt in Franky's words. "So what is this?" She shook her head in confusion, "suddenly we're friends?"

"No, of course not," Erica said quietly.

She took a breath. Franky had unnerved her, as usual, she thought. She was beginning to regret the words she had chosen to describe their kiss. "I went in all guns blazing to make my point," she conceded. Upon reflection she knew she had been harsh. "I took the moral high ground but unfairly perhaps." She was not without fault and Franky had been quick to point that out. "The blame over how and why that kiss happened cannot be left solely at your door. I was partly responsible," she acknowledged. "I set in train that situation when I left you in the slot without explanation. I realise that now."

Franky shrugged, as though those words meant very little to her.

"I can help you," Erica said eventually, "if you'll let me." She frowned slightly. "I want to help you."

"Well I don't need it," Franky told her dismissively.

Erica studied her. Franky looked so certain and uncompromising. Anger radiated from her and it was directed at Erica. The sun had gone behind some clouds and a chill wind had started to rustle the leaves in the tall trees. Erica didn't notice. She wondered suddenly if they could ever get past this point of blame and disappointment. In that moment she didn't know.

"You need a job, don't you?" She asked as the silence lengthened. Erica knew what she could offer Franky was independence and security. Going to work each day, adding value and being paid for your services was critical to a person's sense of worth. Erica firmly believed that society defined and judged people by the work they did. It was why she felt education and skills development programs were so critical to the rehabilitation of prisoners.

"You're going to give me a job, just like that?" Franky asked sceptically. She was angry and she didn't know why exactly.

Erica reached into her handbag. "Well, it is a foot in the door." She said as she pulled out a business card. "It is up to you to make the most of it." Erica held it out to her. "He's expecting your call." After a moment Franky took it but didn't read it. Erica smiled slightly. "It's your choice," she said.

She had begun to walk away. The meeting had not gone as she had expected. Franky was distant, cold even, and unappreciative of her efforts. She didn't know what she could do to change that.

Franky watched her go. As she stood there she remembered a conversation she’d had with Bridget about her father. “If you decide to forgive him, Franky, there can’t be any strings attached to it. Forgiveness must be complete. You cannot hold on to any anger.” She remembered her response. “I don’t want to be that angry woman anymore.” Yet here she was holding onto anger without even knowing why.  She was letting it control her.

"Wait," she called out. When Erica turned she saw the green eyes held a question. "Why?"

"Many reasons," Erica said after a moment. "Because I can, because I want to, because you helped me."

"How?" The crew were finishing up, dumping their jackets and gear in the back of Stan's truck. Franky heard her name being called. She saw Stan waving at her. "How did I help you?" She asked quickly.

"You clarified something for me," Erica said, "something important."

"Doyle!"

"Shit," she muttered under her breath. Suddenly she didn't want the conversation to end. "I've gotta go."

Erica nodded. She watched Franky return to the van. She ditched her own gear and jacket in the back but before she climbed in she looked back towards Erica, her expression thoughtful. Then she spoke with the driver and Erica watched Franky walk back towards her.

"Can you give me a lift?" She asked on approach. There was a hint of a smile.

Erica nodded then relaxed for the first time in Franky's presence since that kiss.

"Do you know one of the hardest things about coming out of prison?" Franky asked randomly as they walked towards Erica's car.

"What?" Erica wasn't sure where the conversation was going.

"Convincing people of the person you are now," Franky told her.

“Isn’t that true of life generally?” Erica asked. “People change but it is often difficult to change people’s perceptions of who we are and what we want.”

“So what do you want?” Franky asked.

Erica felt like she’d been put on the spot. “What everyone wants, to be successful, to be happy,” she offered lamely.

“But what does that look like?” Bridget’s words came back to Franky. Paint me a picture, she thought, and smiled.

Erica’s mind went blank then focussed squarely on Franky. She didn’t respond at first then as she looked for the right words she was distracted. There was a parking inspector booking her vehicle. “Excuse me,” she called out. “This is free parking.”

“Only after 5.30pm, ma'am,” he said as he handed her the ticket.

Erica sighed and shoved the envelope into her hand bag. Franky was grinning. “I thought one of the perks of being in politics was free parking,” she said.

“If you’re a politician maybe,” Erica acknowledged. “The rest of us are just plebs with ambition.”

“You said I helped you clarify something important,” Franky said as Erica pulled into the traffic. “What was it?” Erica hesitated. “You’re not the governor anymore, Erica, and I’m not a prisoner. There are no games to be played here.” Franky reassured her.

“That I like women,” Erica acknowledged. “Before you kissed me I had had vague desires, which I had never acted on, and I’d dismissed as some kind of anomaly. I liked kissing you though, a lot, and afterwards I realised that perhaps there was a pattern here that I couldn’t ignore anymore. I’d been attracted to women before but the physical act crystallised things in my mind. I wasn’t the person I thought I was.” She glanced sideways and saw green eyes watching her intently. “I hated you in that moment,” she admitted, “but I couldn’t deny what it meant.”

Franky understood. She remembered her own journey, and the lightbulb moment when she had to reassess everything about herself and come to terms with what it meant. “Being happy is also about accepting who you are, even if it hurts.” It had been a hard lesson to learn.

“Yes,” Erica agreed quietly, “even if it hurts others.” Franky wondered if Erica was referring to her fiancé.

When she pulled up outside the townhouse in Hawthorn, Erica switched off the engine. “Franky, please think about the job.” She said suddenly. “It will give you some independence and choices.”

“I will,” Franky said quietly and her green eyes were sincere. She watched Erica for a moment. “Thanks for the lift,” she said eventually. Erica nodded.

Franky got out of the car but before she closed the door she leant in. “You never answered my question,” she said. Erica just gave a small confused frown in response. Franky laughed. “Don’t go kissing any girls I wouldn’t approve of,” she said with a grin, stepping away from the car and closing the door as she did so.

Erica laughed self-consciously. This was the Franky she remembered from prison, sincere one minute and teasing the next. She had missed her, she realised, Franky being Franky. It was as though all the angst between them didn’t exist and they were back in the library at Wentworth.

Franky watched the silver Audi drive off. The problem, she thought suddenly, was that Erica Davidson had always fascinated her. She was a complicated and compelling challenge that Franky found difficult to resist.

She needed a job. The pragmatic side of Franky couldn't ignore Erica's offer. The strategic side of her recognised the offer did not come without complications. The first of these was making a salad when she walked into the townhouse.

"Hi," Bridget greeted her. "You're early."

"Yeah, Erica gave me a lift," Franky told her as she poured a glass of water for herself.

The casual reference to Erica Davidson disturbed Bridget. She had hoped that maybe the meeting the other night had been the end of it. Instead Erica was circling like a shark with intent. "Oh, okay," was all she said.

Franky saw her expression.   "Hey," she said immediately, putting down her glass and putting her arms around Bridget. "She came to see me about a job, that's all."

Bridget hugged her. "What job?"

"Dunno, it may be nothing," Franky told her. She hugged Bridget tighter. "Don't worry," she murmured into her hair.

Bridget didn't think it was nothing. Erica Davidson worked for a Minister. She would have connections. It wouldn't be so hard for the adviser to pick up the phone and use her influence in Franky's favour. She could have done it two years ago if she had wanted to, she added to herself. Despite what Franky had told her of the conversation and what had happened between the ex-governor and the prisoner, Bridget still felt Erica Davidson had done less for Franky than she could have. She wondered now what her motivation was.

"You know you don't have to take the first job you find," Bridget said after a moment. "I have enough money to support both of us for as long as it's necessary."

Franky stepped back. "I don't want that," she said with certainty. "I need to pay my way. It's important to me. I've never relied on anyone. This relationship won't be balanced until I can do that." She studied the older woman. "It's not enough for me to cook some meals and put out the garbage. You get that, right?" It was something that had been bothering her.

"Of course," Bridget said immediately. "I'm not saying don't get a job, Franky. I'm saying there's no need to be hasty."

"Are you sure this isn't about Erica?" Franky asked astutely.

Bridget sighed and gave a slight shake of her head. "Franky, I want you to know you have options, that's all."

"Okay then," Franky agreed. She didn't believe her. "You are so important to me." She reassured her then hugged Bridget again. "I don't want you to worry about anything."

Bridget was already worried though. This girl had the ability to make Bridget want to break all her rules. Not that she had many but she had some and one was not to breach the patient therapist boundary, and another was not to fall for someone who would break her heart. With Franky she had almost broken the first and she knew she was already past the point of safety with the second.

"Are you hungry? Let's skip dinner," Franky suggested as she kissed her. "I want to make you feel special, like you're the only girl in the world."

"Are you quoting pop songs now?" Bridget asked in disbelief.

"Misquoting them actually," Franky murmured. "Usually no one notices," she admitted with a grin. "But then, I've never been with anyone smart like you."

Bridget laughed as Franky had hoped she would.

Dinner was late. They ate it on the couch watching the end of some cooking reality TV show. Franky told Bridget some truths about how it was filmed. "That food they're judging is stone cold. The contestants would have made it hours ago and since then the production crew would have been faffing about getting the right take." Bridget watched the judge sample an egg and her stomach turned. She switched it off.

"I found something out today," she said, suddenly remembering she had something to tell Franky.

"Oh yeah?" Franky shifted slightly.

"The visitor registers from two years ago aren't at Wentworth. They're at an off-site Government storage facility." Bridget told her.

Franky looked at her. "How do we get access to them then?" She felt disappointed. "Don't you have to be a government employee or something?"

"Yes," Bridget nodded. "So I asked Vera to request the one we need."

Franky looked sceptical. "And she agreed? Just like that?" She wished now she hadn't been so dismissive of those letters her father had sent. If she had kept them she might have been able to find his address easily from the back of the envelope. She hadn't though. She had erased all trace of him from her cell. At the time it had seemed like a good idea.

"Well," Bridget said slowly, "not exactly but I told her it was to track down a relative of one of the prisoners. When she asked who, I explained that all my sessions are confidential." She smiled at Franky. "What could she say?" Franky didn't respond. She looked thoughtful. Bridget watched her. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Franky said immediately. Bridget shifted so she was looking directly at Franky. "It's nothing, really," she insisted. "It's great, you helping me like this." She smiled suddenly, that disarming smile of hers that made Bridget feel like she really was the only girl in the world. She leant in to kiss Bridget, running her fingers lightly along her jaw.

Bridget suspected Franky used sex to distract from issues. She didn't push her on it but she was well aware that Franky's quick denial wasn't worth anything. Something she had said had bothered Franky. It wasn't until later that she found out what it was.

It was late afternoon the next day when Bridget looked with professional curiosity at the surveillance monitor mounted outside the interview room. She studied the woman on the screen. She looked a shadow of her former formidable self. Her long hair was loose and unkempt. The grey strands more obvious than previously. The loose white pants, too short for her tall frame, stopped above her ankles and the long sleeved top was too short for her torso and rode up revealing the white skin of her waist when she stretched as she did now. The psychologist wondered what she was trying to grab as she repeatedly grasped at thin air.

"Did she say why she wanted to see me?" she asked the psychiatrist beside her.

Dr Williamson shook his head. "I thought you might know," he said.

"No," Bridget replied thoughtfully. Whatever the reason, she was wary. Joan Ferguson was a manipulative individual with psychopathic tendencies. She had told Vera as much in their conversation when they met in the cafe. "Is she lucid?"

"Very much so," he replied. "She is quite the conversationalist. She can seem completely sane at times, and quite delusional at others." He added.

When Bridget entered the clinical room with its white walls and floor, Joan Ferguson stopped her strange antics and turned to face the psychologist. Immediately she waved Bridget towards the table and chairs provided as though this was her office and they had met to discuss one of the prisoners.

"Ah Miss Westfall," she said almost graciously, the professional tone at odds with her appearance.

Bridget acknowledged her with a brief nod and waited for the patient to sit.

"They have very little in the way of services here," the ex-governor said randomly. Her hand brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the table's surface. She looked up suddenly with a tight smile.

"You need to be here," Bridget told her seriously. "These people can help you."

"I wanted to see you," she said as though the psychologist hadn't spoken, "sit, sit," she urged when she saw Bridget was still standing. "We parted on bad terms I'm afraid."

"Yes, we did," Bridget agreed. "You threatened me then blackmailed me into resigning." She said plainly.

Joan Ferguson laughed dismissively. "I hardly think it came to that," she refuted. "You were upset as I recall but you must understand I have a duty to put an end to inappropriate relationships between staff and prisoners."

"You manipulated the opportunity presented to you to suit your own purposes," Bridget told her.

"Don't be ridiculous," she interjected, her body language rejecting the accusation as firmly as her words.

"You wanted to be rid of me," Bridget said bluntly. "I had challenged you about the Jodie Spiteri incident and you didn't like it."

"You were involved with Franky Doyle, I was merely doing my job, Miss Westfall," the patient turned away slightly.

"Ah yes, Franky," Bridget nodded. "Someone else you couldn't control. Did she defy you too at some point?"

"Franky Doyle is a dangerous individual, Miss Westfall. You, of all people, know that." Ferguson watched the psychologist frown as she absorbed her words. "She cannot be trusted. You'd do well to remember that."

Bridget smiled. "Franky has done her time," she pointed out. The governor's words cautioned Bridget. They could be harmless and yet, Ferguson had brought her here for a reason. "She is a reformed individual." She corrected her.

"As governor I would not like to stake my life on that," the ex-governor said with a smile.

Those words, so carefully crafted to say nothing and yet speak volumes, sent a small chill down Bridget's spine. She was right to be wary. Those words suggested Ferguson knew that Franky had killed Meg Jackson.

"Why am I here?" Bridget asked suddenly, challenging Ferguson directly. The psychologist knew Joan Ferguson preferred to talk in riddles and play games.

"These people seem to think I'm crazy, that I wanted to kill that baby when I was trying to save him." The older woman said, leaning forward on her chair and focussing her intense gaze on the blue eyes of the psychologist.

"You set fire to the prison," Bridget pointed out. "You killed Jess Warner and that baby only survived because of Bea Smith and Franky. There is evidence to suggest you had Matt Fletcher run down and Will Jackson framed for murder." Vera had briefed her on the ongoing investigation into the fire.

"My actions were necessary," Ferguson said dismissively. "It irritates me," she added impatiently, "that people cannot see what is painfully obvious. Must I constantly have to explain myself?" Bridget saw the polished exterior crack slightly as Ferguson brushed a wayward hair from her face. If she thought for a moment that was an admission of guilt though, she had under estimated Ferguson. "I had nothing to do with any of those incidents." She pulled down on each of her cuffs to straighten her sleeves.

"You are wasting your breath," Bridget told her. "You will not convince me or a court of your innocence in these matters."

"Do you think so?" She asked with a smile. "Jess Warner set fire to the prison. It was an attempted murder suicide. She was previously convicted of killing a baby. It was why she was at Wentworth. She had been ruled fit to stand trial but clearly your profession is prone to errors," she said pointedly. "The girl was obviously disturbed." Joan Ferguson sat up straighter and smiled. "I think you'll find the forensics support me."

"That is a matter for the police. I think what we'll find is a very clear link between you and a number of incidents involving the abuse of prisoners under your care." Bridget countered with.

The older woman did not respond immediately. She positioned herself more comfortably in her chair and dusted her thighs to remove any wrinkles in her clothing.

"Ah yes, the police," she said thoughtfully, mimicking Bridget's words back at her. "They have interviewed me a number of times but I imagine they will be back again, to see what else I have to say."

The words were benign and yet Bridget didn't like the sound of them at all. There was another conversation occurring, one very different to the words being said. Her face betrayed none of this. She watched the patient with a detachment often seen in her profession.

"You interest me, Miss Westfall," Ferguson said at last, looking up suddenly, her eyes intense and curious.

"Is that why I'm here?" Bridget asked with a quizzical frown.

"You think you are stronger and cleverer than others." Bridget assumed Ferguson was referring to herself. "And yet it is your weaknesses which cripple you."

"That is your opinion," Bridget dismissed the other woman's reading of her character with an impatient sigh.

"It is not a matter of opinion. You have already proven you will not put the people you care about at risk." The ex-governor smiled a little triumphantly. "It is your emotional attachment that will be your undoing."

"Was that your undoing, Miss Ferguson?" Bridget's words parried quickly and she saw immediately that she had scored a point.

Although she had won the war of words, Bridget had heard a threat loud and clear. She didn't know Ferguson's intent but two things became clear to her. In Ferguson's mind the game was not over and the reason the ex-governor had summoned her was to issue a warning.

She called Franky from her car. "Where are you?"

There was a pause. "Legal aid," Franky said eventually.

"Fucking hell," Bridget said with a sinking feeling. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe Ferguson had already decided to make trouble. "What's happened?"

To her surprise she heard Franky laugh. "Nothing," she said with a smile in her voice. "Seriously Gidget, where's your faith?" She teased. "Actually I'm here about a job," she admitted.

“Erica’s got you a job at legal aid?" Bridget couldn't hide her surprise. It distracted her momentarily. "That's fantastic,” she had to admit.

"Yeah," agreed Franky. "Wanna celebrate?"

Bridget wanted to talk but she recognised job offers didn't happen every day and for Franky, this being her first job since prison, it was big. "Definitely," she agreed.

"We can get smashed, go dancing, hustle some pool," Franky said enthusiastically.

"Okay," Bridget said with a laugh. "I have to change though so how about we go home first.”

Franky thought about those words. A home implied safety, protection, love and Franky had never had any of those except maybe before her dad had left. A home was defined by what was in your heart, she thought suddenly.

“I can pick you up, I'm in Fairfield." She heard Bridget say.

Franky smiled. She had a job, she had a home, and she had hope, for the first time in a long time.


	5. The Kiss

"Ferguson knows you killed Meg Jackson."

Franky looked up from Bridget's laptop where she was writing her essay on law of evidence. She had been so absorbed it took a moment for the words to sink in and even then she wasn't sure she'd heard them right. "What?"

Bridget repeated what she'd said. She was leaning forward in her chair with her elbows on her thighs and her hands lightly clasped. She looked concerned.

Franky's eyes returned to the screen. "Yeah, I know," was all she said.

"Fucking hell! Franky!" Bridget exclaimed then sat back and put her hands in the air. "How long have you known?" She sounded exasperated. 

Franky looked up again with surprise. "A while," she said then when she saw the expression on Bridget's face she added, "I found out in prison."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It happened after you’d left," Franky told her. She didn’t know why she hadn’t told Bridget except that she hadn’t thought about it. She had tried not to think much about what had happened to her in prison since she’d been released. It was clear that Bridget had expected Franky to tell her. Now she felt she should have told her, after all, the tape’s existence could hurt Bridget too. “I’m sorry,” she added.

"I saw Ferguson yesterday," Bridget said after a moment. Her eyes were serious.

Franky raised her eyebrows. She understood a little better where this had come from. If Bridget had gone head to head with the ex-governor, it wasn't surprising she was sounding a little agitated. The woman had the ability to throw curve balls at you and then sit back to enjoy the spectacle unfold. "Oh yeah?" was all she said.

"She's gunning for you," Bridget told her. "What did you do to piss her off?"

Franky shrugged. She told Bridget about working with Bea to get Jodie to put in the complaint then prepping her for the hearing. "Ferguson specifically told me to get Jodie away from Bea and threatened to fuck with my parole if I didn't."

She expected Bridget to criticise her for being reckless, for risking her parole for what became a lost cause. Bridget didn't do that though, her mind was focussed on the current problem.

"Why didn't she use this information, if she had it?" The psychologist asked but even as she said it she knew the answer.

Franky shrugged and put Bridget’s thoughts into words. "Coz she likes to blackmail, and manipulate rather than use direct action. I betcha," she said suddenly, "this isn't about me, it's about you," she put her hands behind her head and gave Bridget a knowing look.

As soon as Franky said it Bridget knew she was right. The whole conversation had been geared to highlight to Bridget that she was vulnerable and that Ferguson knew exactly how and where to strike. 

They were both silent, absorbing the implications of Ferguson's latest move. Franky stood up suddenly and started pacing. Bridget's eyes followed her. Ever since they had first clashed over the drugs, Franky had known that Ferguson was trouble. It was only after Simmo’s death though that she realised Ferguson would stop at nothing. Despite that knowledge, she continued to pit herself against the Governor, each time causing Ferguson’s dislike to increase. She had thought she was free of her. Now she wondered if she would ever be free. 

"She didn't give any hint what she wanted?" Franky asked at last.

"No," Bridget frowned. 

Franky stopped pacing and leant a hip against the island bench. She crossed her arms across her chest and looked at Bridget. 

"What?"

"I'm not letting Ferguson put me back behind bars," Franky said firmly.

Bridget wasn't sure what that statement meant but she knew Franky liked action rather than inaction. When her back was against the wall, Franky didn't surrender, she fought harder to survive. Bridget admired that about her. 

"Well, let's think this through," Bridget cautioned. She saw the sense in taking considered action once they understood the issue and they were clear about the possible repercussions of any proposed actions. "This could be an empty threat," she pointed out. "And doing nothing might be our best option."

Franky didn't like that idea. There was no control in doing nothing. "Nah," she said immediately. 

"Why not?" Bridget asked reasonably. 

"It's not an empty threat," she shifted away from the bench and rubbed a hand across her brow. "Ferguson has a fucking tape of me confessing!"

"How did she get a tape?" Bridget already knew the answer. She realised in that moment that she had underestimated Joan Ferguson and the lengths she would go. Franky knew, because Franky had played the game herself and knew the extent you had to go to win it. There was no room for integrity or honour or ethics. To win you had to sell your soul.

"How do you reckon?" Franky asked cynically. "She must have taped our session."

"They're confidential," she muttered, she was having trouble believing it even now when she knew it must be true. Franky wouldn't have told anyone and she hadn't so who did that leave? "Did anyone else know?" She had a sudden thought. "Did Liz know?" 

"It's not Liz," Franky told her with certainty.

Bridget remembered the group therapy session where the tension between Franky and Liz revealed itself and Franky's subsequent aggressive behaviour. "Are you sure? There wasn't a lot of love lost between you two."

Franky looked at her with pity. "I know you don't want to accept this, Gidget, but your session with me was compromised. Ferguson taped it and gave it to Will Jackson." 

When she saw Bridget's reaction to her news she went across to where she was sitting and crouched on her haunches in front of her. She put her hands on Bridget's knees and looked up at her. "It's okay," she reassured her. "The tape's inadmissible. They can't use it against me."

"Even so," Bridget told her quietly. "They will use the knowledge to reopen the investigation. If there is one shred of evidence against you they will find it. They could put pressure on me to be a witness to your confession, making the tape irrelevant."

"You're a psychologist," Franky pointed out, "they can't make you disclose what you know." Franky had researched the law and the precedents in the days following her confession.

"It is not as black and white as that," Bridget told her. "The contract I signed when I joined Wentworth has quite specific obligations around reporting crimes, not misdemeanours," she acknowledged, "but serious offences, which I failed to do in your case."

"So you're fucked basically," she said with a short laugh. Franky knew Bridget had gone out on a limb for her but hearing her now, brought home to her again what she owed this woman. 

“It would be better for both of us if that tape never saw the light of day," Bridget replied with a resigned smile. 

"Okay," Franky's green eyes held a look of determination. "So we better make sure it doesn't."

“How exactly are we going to do that?” Bridget's mind latched onto the infinite possibilities regarding that tape. “Jackson has a copy and Ferguson could have made hundreds of copies. It’s an audio file presumably so she could have emailed it to anyone. How can we possibly track them all down?” She didn't have the first clue about how to achieve that. 

“Worse,” Franky told her, crossing her arms across her chest. “There’s the actual original tape somewhere, and as well as those copies you mention the recording could be on USB sticks, SD cards, Sim cards, –“ 

Bridget interrupted her. “External hard-drives, in the cloud, on a server somewhere,” she added to the list. 

Franky was a typical gen Y, who understood the power of IT and social media and was lost without it. Bridget’s knowledge impressed her. “Yeah,” she agreed with a grin.

“So any ideas?” Bridget asked. Franky looked incredibly calm considering the task before them. 

“Ferguson’s the key,” Franky said slowly. “We’ll never find them all. We don’t even know where to start looking. Shit, they could be on her computer, which could be impounded by the police for all we know,” she realised suddenly.

“You’re not inspiring me with confidence,” Bridget muttered. Franky’s eyes lit up and a slight smile creased her face. "Okay, what is it?" She asked. 

“Someone has to get the truth out of Ferguson,” Franky said, looking at Bridget. “Someone with access who can manipulate her just like she likes to manipulate.” 

Bridget realised what Franky was suggesting. “Me?” She asked with surprise. 

“Why not?” Franky asked. “You’re a psychologist, and you already have access, so who better to out think Ferguson than you? “

Bridget knew Franky was right. She had already tested her skills against Ferguson’s disturbingly fascinating mind. To out think her, and out play her, was a tantalising challenge. Even as she acknowledged this she knew the stakes were high and she couldn’t afford to come off second best. This wasn’t a game.

“What about Will Jackson? There’s still his copy,” Bridget pointed out.

Previously Franky would have done something risky, something stupid, like breaking into Jackson’s place and stealing the copy from him. Now though she wasn’t prepared to risk her parole, her freedom by taking that action. She had another idea. Just as risky but at least legal.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get that one,” she said calmly, vaguely. 

“Franky,” Bridget sounded worried. “You need to be careful. Maybe we should just leave it. If Will was going to expose you surely he would have done so by now.” 

"Listen to me," Franky said quickly. “We need Jackson’s copy. We can’t trust Ferguson. She might give up all the other copies knowing that Jackson’s copy still exists. Then all she has to do is tell the cops where it is then they'll do the rest. If we get to it first and they find nothing then it is just the rantings of a crazy and they'll dismiss it."

Franky watched Bridget wrestle with the idea. “What are you going to do?” She asked eventually

“I’m going to ask him for it,” Franky said simply. 

It sounded too easy and completely implausible at the same time. 

Erica was still at work although it was late. Setting up the review into Wentworth had taken up most of her time in recent days. The media storm had abated with the Minister's announcement but now she had to manage the outspoken Women's Correctional Services Advisory Committee and try to contain their expectations over the review. She had met with them earlier that day to discuss their proposed Terms of Reference. The draft wording had been so broad it would give the Committee carte blanche to investigate anything they felt was necessary. When she had reinforced the Minister's message, she had been met with quite vocal resistance and cries of political interference. Her usual tactic of using her charm and good looks to win over any difficult personalities during negotiations of this type did not work. These influential, smart women were not swayed by her smile. 

Now she checked her emails and discovered one had arrived from the Department which she had been waiting on. It was a history of staff recruitment from Wentworth including policy and procedures. Erica had wanted some background information before she met with the Minister to brief him on the outcome of the meeting with the Committee. She scanned the list of staff recruited over the past five years. She saw her own name and many others which were familiar to her. One name in particular caught her attention: Bridget Westfall, forensic psychologist. Franky's Bridget, she assumed, as she stared at the name and pictured the petite woman. She wondered suddenly if Franky had flirted with her psychologist like she had with her tutor. The thought distracted and disturbed her.

Her phone rang. It was the Minister. He sounded annoyed.

"I just had a call from the Attorney General," he said without preliminaries, "the DPP have decided there is sufficient evidence against Governor Ferguson to prosecute, there'll be a press release tomorrow."

"You should issue one too," Erica said immediately, "announcing the terms of reference for the review."

"Do we have any?" He asked.

"Not exactly," Erica admitted. "The Committee gave me their draft wording today but we can't use it."

"Draft some," he said immediately. "Email both the release and the ToRs over to me and I'll approve them tonight."

"Without the Committee seeing them?" Erica asked, just to be sure.

"It's my fucking review, Erica, not the Women's Correctional Services Advisory Committee," he said impatiently. He rang off.

Erica knew she would be the one to deal with the fall out. She looked at the time. It was already almost 9pm. There was at least an hour's work in the Minister's request. She sighed. It wasn't that she minded the workload or even the last minute change to her plans. If hard work was the key to success then Erica would have no trouble achieving it. Her frustration stemmed from having limited control over outcomes. She influenced where she could but the Minister could just as easily adopt an approach that she knew was wrong and she herself would never support. As now, when he was setting himself, and therefore her, in direct conflict with the one Committee that could harm him politically.  
On impulse she made a call to one of the Committee members. Louisa Kelly was the newest member and had been one of the loudest critics at the meeting that day. Erica intended to get her on board.

"Miss Davidson," she said coolly once Erica had greeted her, "I hardly expected a call from you." Her voice was pleasantly lyrical and Erica detected a faint Irish lilt.

"I am sorry to call so late," Erica apologised, "but I felt it was necessary." She explained the situation. "I would very much like for us to agree on the terms of reference before they go to the Minister."

"I hardly think we are likely to agree on anything," the woman said blandly. 

"You are mistaken if you think that," Erica refuted. "In your role at the Open Pathways Foundation you advocate for better rehabilitation and transition programs for women prisoners. My thinking is very much aligned with that approach." Louisa Kelly was a recent appointment to the influential not-for-profit organisation which was heavily involved with social cohesion projects including transitioning women prisoners back into society.

"And yet your government refuses to fund such initiatives," she pointed out. 

"I agree there needs to be funding provided to organisations such as yours to enable some of these programs to be established," Erica said, effectively pulling the carpet out from under the young CEO. "Without reliable data on their success, however, the Government is understandably reluctant to accept all the financial risk. As a tax payer I'm sure you can see the sense in that." Erica finished with. It would be hard for Louisa Kelly to deny that argument.

"That is all very well, but it is difficult to collect the type of data you are suggesting without actually running the programs." Erica heard the frustration in her words and tone.

"That is why there must be a partnership approach to these initiatives which goes beyond the not for profit sector being the delivery arm and the government being the bank." Erica said firmly, but she needed the woman on side so her next words were conciliatory in nature. "Your predecessor was very adversarial in her approach to lobbying government. I'd like to think your appointment will mean we can work collaboratively to achieve a better outcome for women prisoners, Ms Kelly."

There was a pause. "Send me the words you've drafted," she said at last. 

Erica smiled. "You'll have them within the hour," she confirmed. 

By the time she had sent the revised terms of reference, reluctantly endorsed by Louisa Kelly, to the Minister it was almost 11pm. She had planned to call Franky that evening but instead she sent a text message. "I heard you took the job," it read, "I'm glad."

To her surprise her phone rang almost immediately. It was Franky.

"I thought you'd be asleep," Erica said on answering.

"I'm writing an essay for uni," Franky told her. There was a pause as they both decided what to say next. Franky reached a decision first. "I guess I owe you a drink," she offered.

"No," Erica said immediately, "I've already told you why I helped. You don't owe me anything." She said firmly. "I wouldn't say no to a drink though," she added with a smile in her voice. 

Franky heard the invitation in her words. Her anger towards Erica had abated somewhat. Erica's offer to help had been genuine and she couldn't help but be intrigued by Erica's confession and what it meant. The question she'd had in her mind about Erica had resurfaced since their last meeting. 

"Okay," she agreed after a moment. "I'll call you."

"Okay," Erica had to be content with that. "I better go," she said at last. "The DPP have decided to prosecute Joan Ferguson and it will hit the news tomorrow morning. I have a busy day ahead." 

"What?" Franky asked quickly. As Erica repeated what she'd said, Franky wondered what the implications were. Any move that Ferguson intended to make could only be brought forward by this news, which meant getting hold of that tape and any copies had now become critical. Her farewell to Erica was distracted and she did not return to her essay once she'd hung up. 

The next morning Franky was slouched in Bridget’s convertible. Despite the sunny morning, which for the first time, held a hint of summer in the spring air, they had kept the roof on. Her arms were bare, however, and her sunnies were keeping the glare from her eyes. Bridget was next to her silently watching the beige house further along the street.

"How did you find out you liked women?" Franky asked suddenly.

"I always knew," Bridget said immediately. "I came out in high school."

"Yeah, but there must have been a moment, something that made you conscious of it," Franky said with certainty.

Bridget stared ahead thoughtfully. "I guess it was when I kissed my baby-sitter," she said eventually. Franky choked on a mouthful of water.

"What?" She managed to splutter. "How old were you?"

Bridget saw the confusion. "Not while she was my baby-sitter, fucking hell Franky," she shook her head slightly. "I met her years later, when I was about fifteen and she must have been in her early twenties. I'd always liked her you know then I saw her out at a pub one night. We got chatting and after I'd had a few drinks I kissed her in the loos."

Franky raised her eyebrows. Firstly because it seemed Bridget was a bit of a wild child, out drinking at fifteen, and secondly because she hadn't been nearly so keen to seize those kind of opportunities with Franky. "How did that go down?"

Bridget laughed. "Not well, she freaked out."

"Straight, was she?" Franky asked with a grin.

"No, it wasn't that," Bridget refuted. "In her head I was still the little girl she would put to bed and read stories to. It seemed completely wrong to her that we were kissing, you know?" She paused. "I guess I was only fifteen," she said reflectively. "But I knew what I wanted even then and it wasn't boys." 

Franky's expression sobered. She was watching Bridget, absorbing her words. Franky could be quite reflective, Bridget realised. For someone who was so energetic and focussed it was unusual to see. 

"What?" Bridget gave her a quizzical look. Franky hesitated. "You can ask me," Bridget reassured her with a smile.

"When you lost your baby," she saw Bridget’s expression become neutral. She pushed on regardless. "Were you with someone?"

"Yes," her eyes shifted downwards and when she looked up Franky saw sadness in them. "I lost her too."

"You mean she -" Franky was about to say died but Bridget interrupted her.

"No, nothing like that," then she took a breath. She should be able to talk about it now. "She - we," she corrected herself, "just weren't strong enough to survive losing Riley." The words came out slowly, rusty and creaking as though they hadn't been used in a long time. "Something broke between us and we couldn't fix it. It wasn't anyone's fault."

Franky thought Bridget looked so lost and alone as she forced the words out. "You lost your family," she said quietly. "When that happens you want to blame someone." Franky understood that. She thought about her mother and how careless she'd been with her own family and what she had destroyed. 

"Yes," Bridget sighed wearily. "I think Rachel blamed me, not consciously, but deep down." 

"But it wasn’t your fault," Franky said. She took Bridget’s hand in hers. 

Bridget smiled slightly. Franky’s assumption that she was blameless was touching. "No," she agreed. She squeezed Franky's fingers lightly to show her appreciation of her words. “But that didn’t matter."

"You never wanted to try again?" Franky asked tentatively. 

"No," Bridget said immediately, definitively. "It never felt right." 

Franky saw something in Bridget at that moment that she had never seen before. Franky recognised it because she had seen it in herself. It was fear. 

She tilted her head and studied Bridget. "Yeah, I get that," she said eventually. "But then someone showed me that I should never give up on hope." She smiled, and it was genuine and generous, then she leant across to kiss Bridget lightly on the lips. As she did a couple came out of the house they had under surveillance.

“Are you sure about this?” Bridget asked suddenly. She watched Rose smile at Will Jackson as they emerged from the house. 

“Trust me Gidge, it will be a synch,” Franky reassured her, sounding more confident than perhaps she felt. 

“Maybe I should come with you,” Bridget suggested, sounding more tentative than usual.

Franky took her eyes off the prison officer and looked at Bridget. “Nah,” she said softly. “You don’t want people at Wentworth knowing we’re together,” she reminded her. “Someone will use it against you.”

Bridget knew she was right. She had to let Franky take control of this one and trust in her abilities to charm and use empathy to her advantage. She nodded and watched as Franky walked towards the couple.

“Hey spunky,” Franky said on approach, with an engaging smile directed at Rose. The nurse looked round in surprise. Franky had weighed up the risks of what she was about to do. She was banking on one thing. Will had had his chance to expose her and he hadn’t done it. She had faced her demons over Meg’s death that day and had become a better person because of it. 

She turned to face Will Jackson. “Hey Mr Jackson, can I have a word in private?” After a moment he nodded and Rose discreetly returned to the house.

She told him why she was there. She didn’t lie or try to dress it up. She and Will were past that. There was only the truth between them now. “Why would I help you?” The big islander asked when she had finished. 

“Bea told me what you did,” Franky said quietly. “How you came back with her into the fire, risking your life to save me. You wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t forgiven me,” Franky said slowly. “Ferguson sent you that recording, deliberately. She was playing us, she’s still playing us,” Franky told him. “I’m over it. I want this to end.” She said sincerely. “Don’t you?”

Will Jackson seemed to be in two minds, uncertain whether to trust her but equally untrusting of Ferguson. “Wait here,” he said eventually and disappeared inside the house.

Franky sighed and leant against the wall of the house with her face to the sun. She waited. The sun was more pleasant than the waiting. Franky was over waiting. All those years waiting for her father then more wasted years waiting in prison. She’d done her quota and Franky didn’t have time for any more waiting. Sometimes she thought she would explode with the energy and restlessness inside her. 

Eventually he appeared again and handed her a small silver thumb drive. “It’s the only copy,” he told her. Franky nodded but she knew he was naive to think that. Ferguson had the original and who knew how many more copies. Franky knew Bridget’s task would be much harder to accomplish. 

Erica's phone was ringing. She noticed the screen light up on her desk although in the general laughter and chatter she couldn't hear it. Before she could excuse herself from the conversation the call went through to voicemail. Someone asked her a question and her attention was dragged back to the impromptu party. The government had had a significant win that day with a major reform getting through parliament. Her Minister had been one of the strongest advocates of the bill so he had supplied champagne and his office had stopped work early to celebrate. It was one of the things she enjoyed about working in politics, the wins were clear and celebrated, unlike her time at Wentworth where solving one problem often just led to another.

It wasn't until the party had wrapped up in the early evening that Erica checked her messages and realised the missed call had been from Franky. Her immediate reaction was one of disappointment then she saw the text message. "I'm heading to The Phoenix if you want to have that drink."

She noticed there was another message. This one was from Louisa Kelly asking Erica to call her. She looked at the time. It was almost 8 pm. Both messages had been left around five. She called Louisa Kelly but it rang out. She left a message. She decided to go home via The Phoenix.

Franky was playing pool and winning. She'd had just enough alcohol to take the edge off. It improved her game dramatically. She found there was a fine line though between just enough alcohol and too much when playing pool.

As she lined up her shot on the black, she was distracted by the appearance of a well-dressed blonde in her peripheral vision. When she glanced up to get a better look she realised it was Erica. She took the shot and watched with satisfaction when the black rolled neatly into the corner pocket. She put down her cue and collected her cash refusing another game with a winner's laugh. 

"Didn't think you were going to show up," she told Erica. 

They ordered drinks and found a small round table with a couple of stools. It was intimate. As soon as Franky leant on the table it brought her close to Erica. If Erica had leant forward too they would have been within kissing distance, one of them thought suddenly.

"I'm glad you kept up your studies," Erica said, filling the silence between them. "You must be almost finished."

Franky sat back in her chair. "I'm going to transfer to a law degree next semester," she told her. "It'll give me more options."

Erica nodded. "Don't limit yourself," she agreed. "Careers can come from the strangest places," she added, thinking how leaving Wentworth had given hers a dramatic turn.

Franky watched her. She wondered suddenly where the last two years had taken Erica Davidson. On the outside she looked the same. Still undeniably feminine and good looking, stylish and confident, her smile still delighted its recipient. On the outside nothing appeared to have changed. Erica's confession in the car hinted at another story. Franky was curious to hear it. 

"You didn't get married then," Franky said suddenly.

Erica hadn't expected the sharp turn in the conversation. "Sorry?"

"No ring," Franky said, pointing her beer in the direction of Erica's left hand.

"No," Erica acknowledged. She sipped her wine but didn't take her eyes from Franky.

"How come?" Franky probed, she half expected Erica not to answer. In Wentworth the governor had never let Franky cross into the personal, and yet her confession the other day had signalled a change in their relationship.

"I was settling for something because it was expected, but it wasn't what I wanted." Her brow creased. "I wasn't being true to myself."

"Yeah, well, I tried to tell you that," Franky grinned at her, "remember?"

"You haven't changed," Erica said with a smile.

Franky looked serious. "Yeah I have," she contradicted her. Prison changed a person. She thought about the things she had done, how far she had fallen, how close she had come to losing herself. She had survived but there was no pleasure in that just relief.

Erica's smile faded. She had spoken light-heartedly. Franky's words reminded her that prison left scars. They weren't always obvious but they were there and as difficult to erase as Franky's tattoos.

"I suppose we both have," Erica said eventually. It was an acknowledgement that, no matter what, they couldn't go back. Her phone rang. "Do you mind?" She asked Franky apologetically. When her companion just shrugged and picked up her beer, Erica took the call. 

"It's Louisa Kelly," said a soft melodic voice. "Thanks for calling back. I was wondering what you were doing this weekend."

Erica glanced briefly at Franky. "Nothing in particular," she admitted, truthfully she would probably work, "why?"

"I want to show you something," was all she said.

"All right," Erica agreed after a moment. She was intrigued. "What is it?"

"If I tell you, you might not come," Louisa Kelly laughed lightly. 

Erica couldn't help smiling. "Okay, now I'm curious," she admitted. 

"Good," the other woman replied. She told Erica she'd text the details. "See you Saturday," she said with satisfaction.

"See you then," Erica confirmed.

"Was that your girlfriend?" Franky asked directly as soon as Erica had put down her phone.

"What? No," Erica said immediately. "I don't have a girlfriend," she refuted without thinking. She saw Franky smile and realised the question had been designed to reveal her personal situation. She retreated behind her wine glass. 

Franky leant forward again, her green eyes sincere. "Well, that's interesting," she said, "why not?"

"I haven't met the right girl," Erica answered lightly. Or maybe, more likely, no girl had measured up to the girl before her. Franky Doyle was not someone easily forgotten. The women she'd been with in the last two years were fleeting experiments. It was only now she realised that she had been looking for the same addictive attraction she'd felt for Franky. It was a disturbing revelation. 

"Any more news on Ferguson?" Franky was asking as she played with her beer. 

It took Erica a moment to refocus. "Joan Ferguson?" She frowned. "Nothing I've heard." 

"If you hear anything about her, will you let me know?" Franky asked in a deceptively relaxed tone.

"What sort of thing?" Erica asked with a frown.

Franky shrugged. "Anything," she said vaguely. 

It was late when they decided to call it a night so Erica offered to drive Franky home. "It will save you getting a taxi," she said pragmatically. She’d only had two wines since arriving, conscious that she had drunk champagne at the office earlier. She wasn't sure how much Franky had consumed. She didn't seem drunk though. 

In the car her mind returned to their earlier conversation. When they arrived at Franky’s place, she switched off the engine. "I was wrong before," she said in the silence, "when I said I hadn't met the right girl." 

It happened so fast, Franky didn't see it coming. One moment she was smiling at Erica's confession and the next Erica's warm soft insistent lips were against hers. It began where their kiss two years ago had finished only this time Franky didn't pull away. All her primary senses were in overdrive and her mind was in free fall. All at once Erica's perfume was filling her nostrils and she could taste the peppermint Erica had eaten in the car. Erica's fingers had slipped through her hair causing Franky's scalp to tingle. She responded to Erica's invitation and kissed her back. 

Then car headlights flashed across the windscreen illuminating them briefly. Franky broke off the kiss in time to see Bridget's black Porsche Boxster pull into the driveway.


	6. Questions

When Franky was six years old her mother had taken her to a picnic. She couldn’t remember much about it now except it was near a river somewhere and there were a bunch of other kids she didn’t know. Franky had eaten mango for the first time that day and had fallen in love with the exotic, colourful fruit. She remembered that she and another boy had eyed off the last wedge and the boy’s mother had given it to Franky. She had been pleased to get it and had skipped off to the edge of the river to eat it. It had been so slippery and as she was about to put it in her mouth with excited anticipation, the fruit had slid out of her hand and splashed into the rocky shallow water of the river’s edge. It had stood out like a jewel just below the surface. Franky had been upset, disappointed but as she lamented her loss, the boy’s mother approached and saw the mango lying in the muddy water.

“Francesca!” she had exclaimed softly. It was all she had said and yet, in her tone Franky heard the judgement, disappointment, and reproach. Franky had felt an overwhelming sense of unfairness. She had known the woman thought she had deliberately thrown the mango away and she was being judged as spiteful and mean. The little girl had been smart enough to realise that and yet was incapable of defending herself. She had remained silent, tears blurring the fruit’s definition as she stared stubbornly downwards, alone and without solace.

It had hurt for two reasons. Firstly, because Franky hadn’t done anything wrong. It had been an accident. The fruit had slipped defiantly from her hand. Secondly, because the woman had been kind to Franky, going out of her way to ensure the gypsy-like girl had been included in the day’s activities while Franky’s mum had shown little interest. It had hurt because Franky had liked her and now the woman thought badly of her. She had never forgotten the incident and even as an adult when it came to mind unexpectedly she felt her chest tighten uncomfortably. Franky had learnt to accept responsibility for her actions but the one thing she had never come to terms with was being judged unfairly for something that wasn’t her fault. The moment in Erica’s office when she was blamed for giving Toni drugs and judged accordingly by Channing had given her that same sense of unfairness.  

Now, as she stared at Bridget’s car the same sinking feeling washed over her, that even though she hadn’t initiated the kiss she would be judged as though she had. Worse, someone she cared about and respected would think a little less of her because of it.

“What is it?” Erica asked as Franky sat back.

“It’s Bridget,” Franky replied ambiguously. Her eyes didn’t reveal any more as they flicked quickly from the Porsche to Erica. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.

Erica wasn’t sure what Franky was apologising for. She wished now she hadn’t acted so impulsively. She could see Franky was already regretting the kiss. She was distancing herself from it, physically, mentally. It couldn’t be just because she was with Bridget. Franky had deliberately and relentlessly pursued Erica when she had been with Kim. Erica had watched them together on the surveillance cameras. Hating herself for doing it but unable to resist, fantasising about being the one Franky was forcing backwards onto that hard, wooden bench, feeling frustrated and unfulfilled. Even now, when sex with a woman was no longer a dark, delicious mystery, she felt a strong desire for Franky. Just kissing her left Erica’s heart racing and her body piqued. It had lasted long enough for Erica to know it was a very different kiss to one two years ago in her office.

“Franky,” there was a question in Erica’s voice.

“I’ve gotta go.” Franky said without moving. She didn’t know what she was waiting for. There was no sign of Bridget but shrubs blocked her view to the garage and the front door.

“Again?” Erica murmured drily.

Franky looked at her then. Her brain seemed unable to process Erica’s comment, faced as it was with the more overwhelming issue of a possible uncomfortable session with Bridget. “What?” she asked with a frown.

“Well, you kiss me then you walk away,” Erica pointed out. She sounded not exactly amused by it but resigned to it. Franky could even see a shadow of a smile on her face. A small part of Franky’s mind registered that Erica didn’t seem at least concerned that the straight-talking Bridget Westfall could appear at any moment, justifiably annoyed and upset by what she had just seen.

“You kissed me,” Franky corrected her but even as she said it she knew she was arguing the detail instead of the point, as her law tutor liked to say. She moved on quickly. “I’m not walking away. I don’t want you to think that,” she said with certainty.

“I don’t think she would have seen anything,” Erica said suddenly, showing Franky she realised what might be on her mind and trying to reassure her. “The lights were on us for no more than a few seconds.”

A few seconds was all it took though. Franky thought about the life-changing events which had only taken a few seconds. Hot oil could be thrown, knives could kill, friends could be betrayed, and relationships defined all in a matter of moments.

“Yeah,” Franky agreed. They both knew she didn’t believe it.

“Before you go,” Erica said hastily as Franky’s hand grabbed the door handle. “I want you to know I didn’t just kiss you on a whim,” she said sincerely. “I wanted to kiss you all evening. I know what I want now.”

Franky couldn’t mistake the message. Erica was not the conflicted conundrum of two years ago. She wasn’t hiding in the light, uncertain and confused, anymore. Erica had got her shit together.

It was Saturday morning, the morning after the kiss, and Franky was sweating and it had nothing to do with running, or pumping iron. She was feeling guilty. There was no doubt about it. That kiss was now sitting squarely between her and Bridget. So big she wondered how Bridget hadn't seen it. At first she had been relieved. When she had entered the house the previous night there had been silence then Franky had heard the shower. Surely if Bridget had seen anything she would be waiting in the lounge room or the bedroom wanting to talk, Franky had convinced herself. Then relieved again when Bridget had said she was tired and they had gone to sleep immediately. She had been relieved that Bridget hadn't seen anything.

That morning she had made breakfast. She had taken her time to do something special, something that required effort and creativity, something worthy of her talent in the kitchen. When Bridget had thanked her over the rim of her coffee cup, her blue eyes had seemed pensive to Franky's paranoia.

So now she was sweating and it had nothing at all to do with lycra. She leaned on the mattock and looked in dismay at the very small impact she’d had. Franky was making vegetable garden in Bridget’s small backyard. The ground was hard and she was glad of her gym work in prison, which meant she was fit and strong in the arms and shoulders, but she still found her back aching after half an hour. She stopped and surveyed her work. It was a mistake. As soon as she did, her traitorous mind replayed that kiss, seeming to enjoy the sensations it evoked.

“Franky,” Bridget appeared with a coffee mug in hand. “What are you doing out here?” She surveyed the overturned patch of lawn curiously.

“Nothing,” Franky said immediately, then when she realised she sounded like a guilty nine year old she corrected herself, “making a veggie patch. We talked about it, remember?”  Bridget was watching her. “You know, to grow vegetables,” she added lamely. “And herbs, for cooking.” The words were just tumbling out of her mouth, “tomatoes and capsicum and zucchini, maybe eggplant and carrots.” The list could have gone on forever except Bridget put her out of her misery.

They had laughed about it, Bridget remembered. She had complained about the lack of flavour in tomatoes and how the ones her dad had grown when she was a kid had oozed with flavour, so much so Bridget had eaten them fresh off the vine like fruit. Franky had got enthusiastic about the idea of growing their own vegetables. She had sketched drawings of the design, planning where the different vegetables would go and promising Bridget she would cook with them as they ripened over the summer. Franky had sealed the deal with a kiss.

That reminded Bridget of the other kiss. The one she had witnessed. The one Franky hadn’t mentioned. She could have asked Franky about it but she hadn’t. Instead she had waited, silent, to see what Franky would do. If there was trust and respect between them as Bridget hoped then Franky would be open with her. Regardless of the consequences of that conversation, Franky would not shirk it.

Franky hadn’t mentioned it though. Not when Bridget had come to bed the night before, fresh from her shower, and asking Franky about her day. Nor that morning over breakfast when Franky had been quieter than usual and had vanished outside at the first opportunity. Her optimism faltered slightly but still she held out hope that Franky wouldn’t disappoint her.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, interrupting Franky’s litany.  She paused as she watched Franky digest this and frown, when she spoke though it was about something else entirely. “I’ve got your dad’s address.”

Erica looked at the dilapidated warehouse dubiously then back to Louisa Kelly. She had no idea what she was supposed to be seeing other than a building that had clearly seen better days. She couldn’t fathom for a moment why the other woman had brought her here.

“What do you think?” Louisa asked suddenly, turning her eyes to Erica with a penetrating look.  

Erica noticed for the first time her eyes were blue, not startlingly blue but the dark blue of a moody sea. The colour of her top and the position of the light had brought out the blue she realised. She found herself admiring them.

“Erica?” Louisa Kelly prompted with a slight frown.

“Well, it isn’t the Hyatt,” Erica said as she dragged her eyes away from her companion and back to the derelict building.

“It has potential though, don’t you think?” The words sounded eager beneath a cautious tone.

“For what?” Erica asked with a laugh.

“I want to build a women’s refuge which provides opportunities for women who have been released from prison or are victims of domestic violence to choose a different, better path.”

“A half-way house,” Erica said in summary.

“More than that,” Louisa Kelly said dismissively. “It will focus on education and empowerment in a safe, secure environment. Yes, it will be a place for these women to stay but it will also give them an opportunity to rebuild. The biggest problem for women leaving prison is returning to the same set of circumstances they had when they went in. For women suffering domestic violence they need sufficient independence to escape that damaging relationship. For both, it is about having sufficient support structures in place during that transition period and afterwards.”

“What you’re describing needs a lot more than just a building,” Erica pointed out.

“Of course,” the other woman acknowledged, “and I already have plans but I can’t do any of it without a facility.”

“It will cost millions of dollars to refurbish this place,” Erica had now realised the intent of the invitation. “You can’t seriously expect the government to put up the cash.” She rubbed her brow. “It is far too risky.” She was dismissive.

“Well God forbid a government might be visionary!” Louisa exclaimed with frustration.

“They’re not visionary,” Erica said calmly and with certainty. “Governments by nature are risk averse and more concerned with polling than anything else. I’m sorry but if you brought me out here today in the hope of securing funding then you’ll be disappointed.”

“If no one takes a chance on these women they’ll be lost.” Louisa said softly.

Erica thought about Franky. Would she have been lost without the opportunity to study and see a future different to the path she was travelling? Franky was a survivor and yet surviving was not flourishing. Who knew where Franky would have ended up, dead possibly or more probably lost to a life of crime.

Louisa Kelly dropped her home and Erica could sense her disappointment. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about these women but she was limited in her capacity to help. She did not control the purse strings.

Franky looked at the brown brick house, which had a recently mown front lawn and brown brick letter box. It was small, pressed up against its neighbours, but it was neat, and cared for she thought as she studied it. She looked again at the address Bridget had given her to make sure she had the right house. Surely this wasn’t her father’s house, not anymore even if it had been once. She remembered their home. It had been cluttered and chaotic except for her bedroom. Franky had been a neat freak even back then. It had been the only thing she could control.

She went up to the door expecting to be disappointed, re-directed, or dismissed. As she knocked she heard the television in muted tones. It told her there was someone at home. After a minute the door opened and a boy of about fifteen looked at her blankly through the security screen. “Yeah?” he said after a moment.

It was the wrong place but she asked anyway. Maybe they knew him. “I’m looking for Alan Doyle.”

He turned away from her. “Mum,” he called, “there’s someone here wanting dad.” He wandered off, leaving the door wide open.

Franky was processing as fast as her shell-shocked mind was capable. It was something she had never even contemplated, although now she wondered why the fuck she hadn’t. Her father had another family. He might have abandoned his wife and daughter but not the idea of a family. He had what Franky had lost. She felt anger well up inside her.

“Hello,” a woman in her early fifties appeared. She smiled at Franky. “Al isn’t home right now,” she told her. She was looking at her curiously. “Can I help?”

“Nope,” Franky said immediately.

“He had to take Jenna to her volleyball game,” she offered. “They won’t be back before five,” she said apologetically.

“It’s okay,” Franky told her. She turned away and walked up the path towards the road.

“Did you want to leave your number?” The woman called after her but Franky just raised her hand and continued walking. She had no intention of ever talking to her father again.

Franky found a pub and ordered a beer. As she drank she thought about her father. All those years she had waited for him, he had been playing happy families somewhere else. Now she was glad that she hadn’t reconciled with him when he had visited her in prison. Glad that she had turned him away and seen the hurt in his eyes.

Her phone rang. It was Erica. She thought about not answering it. Then she remembered Erica had met her dad, talked to him, and now she wondered what they had talked about.

“Did you know my dad had re-married?” she asked immediately on answering.

There was a pause. Erica could hear the accusatory tone in Franky’s voice. She wondered what had happened. “No,” she said after a moment.

“You talked to him,” Franky reminded her. “He never happened to mention he had a son and a daughter version 2.0?” She asked cynically.

Erica suddenly understood. “You’ve seen your dad,” she said slowly.

“Nope but I’ve seen his kids, well one of them,” she conceded. “He has a daughter too,” she picked up her beer. “I guess that’s why he never came looking for me.” She drank it quickly. It wasn’t enough. She needed a shot of something.

“Where are you?” Erica asked. She sounded concerned.

Franky laughed. “No fucking idea,” she said. “Some pub, I don’t even know its name.” Erica heard her order a vodka shot.

“He did come looking for you though,” Erica pointed out.

“Two years ago,” Franky said dismissively, “not exactly evidence of any urgent desire to find me.” She threw back a shot and waited for the burn.

“Maybe it took him that long to find you,” Erica defended her father. “You were in foster homes Franky, then on the streets for a while. He found you when someone showed him a YouTube clip of the assault. How long had he been writing to you before you agreed to see him?” Franky was silent. “Look,” she added after a moment, “it’s up to you but maybe you should speak to him and hear what he has to say.”

Franky didn’t like that idea much. “Why were you ringing?” She asked to change the subject.

“To see how you were actually,” Erica said with a smile in her voice.

“I’m awesome,” Franky said drily.

Erica laughed a little nervously. “Actually I meant about the kiss, our kiss,” she added. There was a pause. Erica waited.

“I liked kissing you,” Franky said slowly, “but I’m with Bridget,” she added.

“That never seemed to bother you before,” Erica reminded her. “You were with Kim the whole time you were flirting with me at Wentworth.”

“Yeah,” Franky acknowledged. She didn’t know how to explain to Erica that her relationship with Kim had been one dimensional and couldn’t be compared to the one she had with Bridget.

“Tell me something,” Erica said into the silence that had fallen between them. “Have you asked yourself why you are with her?”

“Huh?” Franky had been in the process of drinking her second shot. Her hand stopped on the way to her mouth.

“She was your therapist at Wentworth, wasn’t she?” Erica was careful to keep her tone neutral. She knew she was on dangerous ground but part of her wondered about it. Bridget was older than Franky and she had been in a position of trust. Franky, despite her bravado, was vulnerable.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Franky asked immediately, defensively. “It’s none of your business what’s between Bridget and me.”

Erica sighed. “No,” she agreed, “except that you kissed me last night and I’m just trying to understand where that fits in.”

Franky couldn’t blame Erica for being confused. She was confused herself. Her leg tapped impatiently.   “I don’t know,” she said with sudden honestly. “I know I want to be a better person than the one I was though.” She knew then what she wanted to do. “I’ve gotta go,” she told Erica.

As she sat on the tram she remembered a conversation she had had with Liz just before leaving Wentworth. Suddenly she missed the comradery of the cell block and the friends she’d made there. Everything had been simpler inside, everything had been about survival.

_"So blondes have more fun, huh?" Franky said with a laugh. Liz had been talking shit._

_"Well they do," Liz agreed immediately._

_It was late.  Tomorrow Franky would walk out of Wentworth.  Her cell was cleared out and a box of personal belongings had been sent to the halfway house her parole officer had organised.  There was nothing left to do but wait.  The women had put on a party for her to say good bye.  Now though everyone had gone to bed and the cell block was quiet. She was parked on the couch in H2 with Liz.  No one had been in H2 longer than she and Liz.  They were the last of the originals._

_"I don't think so," Franky scoffed._

_"Yeah," Liz reaffirmed with a slow nod of her head.  She smiled to herself._

_"You didn't look like you were having much fun over the last 12 months,” Franky pointed out with a laugh. “Skye neither except when she was so spaced out she thought she could fucking fly, and as for Maxipad, her blonde wig didn't ring any bells for her either as far as I could tell."_

_"And you have been?" Liz asked in turn._

_"A fuck more than you, Liz," Franky defended herself._

_"Really? Coz there hasn't been a lot of closed door action coming from outta your cell lately."  Liz said with a sideways glance._

_"Not everything's about sex."_

_The older woman looked surprised.  "What?” She exclaimed. “Will the real Franky Doyle please stand up?" She laughed._

_"Shut up," Franky said with a grin._

_"So," Liz said curiously, "what has brought about this revolution in thinking, or should I ask who?"_

_"None of your business," Franky said sweetly._

_"Got a secret, have you?" Liz teased._

_"If I did I wouldn't be telling you about it," Franky told her with certainty.  "Everyone knows alcohos can't keep their mouths shut."  She grinned to take the edge off her words._

_Liz didn't take offence.  "Anyway I thought you liked blondes," she said leadingly._

_Franky shrugged and shook her head.  She stretched her legs out and rested her hands on her belly.  "Nah," she said dismissively but her mind latched onto one blonde in particular._

_"Keep your secrets then," Liz told her and she laughed but kindly._

_"If you've got something to say Liz, you should just say it," Franky dared her, her expression serious._

_"Well, if there was any truth in Kim's outbursts," Liz continued bravely.  "Bridget Westfall is a blonde," she pointed out._

_Franky didn't say anything._

_"I liked her," Liz said after a moment.  "She seemed decent and actually tried to help."  She looked sideways at Franky.  "She'd be a keeper I reckon."_

_"What makes you think she's even into women?" Franky asked, a little dismissively._

_"She used to check you out, that's why," Liz said with a smile._

_"Yeah?" Franky asked non-committally but she was curious to hear what Liz knew about Bridget's interest._

_Liz laughed.  "You can't fool me, Franky, " she said with a slow shake of her head.  "I know you were keen on her."_

_"You reckon?" Franky folded her arms against her chest._

_"Yeah," Liz confirmed.  "When you had me up against that wall, when I was pissed and talking shit about Meg Jackson, it only took a word from Miss Westfall and you backed right down.  I thought I was dead or at least damaged.  But it wasn't the same Franky Doyle that used to wind up Jacs Holt or egg on Bea.  You've changed," she stated.  "It's not just that you've grown up, you seem more at peace."_

_"Jeez Liz, I think Boomer hit you one time too many," Franky said dismissively._

_"No," Liz said firmly, "I'm serious.  You make the most of that brain of yours, and don't waste your chances, and if you find someone who cares about you and you care about, you hang on to them.  You deserve to be happy."_

_“I will,” Franky promised._

Well, she was right on track with that, she thought with a sigh, as she watched rain drops chase each other down the window pane. The fine day had gone and Melbournians had pulled out their umbrellas.

Bridget hadn’t gone with Franky to see her dad. She had offered but before they had left she had received a call from the Thomas Embling Hospital confirming her visit with Joan Ferguson.

When she arrived at the psychiatric institution she found the patient had been restrained. She questioned the duty psychiatrist about it. “She attacked two nurses,” he told her. “It was after she heard the news they were going to prosecute her.”

“I don’t want her restrained when I speak to her,” Bridget told him. She wanted Joan Ferguson to feel like she was in complete control of the situation.

The psychiatrist looked at her small frame and frowned. “I don’t think that is a good idea. She is almost twice your size,” he pointed out.

“It will be fine, She wants to out-think me not out-muscle me,” Bridget reassured him. “You can keep someone outside and give me a panic button if you’re worried,” she offered as a compromise.

Joan Ferguson looked a little wilder than at their last meeting. Her voice and her words were controlled, however, as she greeted her former employee.

“It is so difficult to have a stimulating conversation in this facility,” Ferguson said in a confiding tone.

Bridget raised her eyebrows. “Even with Doctor Williamson?” she asked.

“That man asks too many questions and never listens to the answers,” she said dismissively. “Typical,” she added with a sniff.

“Of his profession?” Bridget asked with a slight smile, wondering if the insult was directed at her.

“Of his sex, Miss Westfall,” she said immediately, her eyes dropping down and away, indicating her disappointment at Bridget’s lack of insight. Then just as quickly her eyes returned and rested on the psychologist. “What do you want?”

The sudden frontal attack put Bridget off balance for a moment. She hadn’t expected it. “To talk,” she offered.

Ferguson smiled. “I sincerely doubt that,” she challenged. “You want to play.”

“This isn’t a game,” Bridget pointed out. “The DPP are bringing charges against you. In a matter of weeks you could be back in Wentworth with the very women you abused.”

Ferguson laughed. “I doubt that will happen.”

“And why not?” Bridget asked, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair.

“Your testimony,” the ex-governor said with certainty.

Bridget’s expression didn’t change. Her eyes held the same certainty as when she had entered the room even though doubt had begun to ripple through her. “My testimony?”

“Yes,” Ferguson confirmed. Her expression a little patronising, as though she knew she would have to explain things. “You will convince the jury of my innocence.” She laughed to herself. “The Board chose well when they appointed you. Your reputation is faultless, you are highly regarded in the profession, and a jury will have trouble ignoring your expertise.”

Bridget realised what Ferguson wanted from her. Franky had been right. The tape was merely a tool to be used to make the psychologist compliant. Ferguson wanted Bridget to counter any testimony against her.

“And what makes you think I’ll help you?” she asked.

“The tape, Miss Westfall,” Ferguson hissed, leaning forward in her chair, her eyes cold like a dead fish.

“What tape?” Bridget asked dismissively, feeling on solid ground again.  

“The one where Franky Doyle confesses to murder, the one where you caution her not to say any more, the one that will land both her and you in very hot water.” She sounded excited, full of nervous energy, dangerous.

“That tape, if it exists, would be inadmissible,” Bridget told her.  

Ferguson watched her. “If you think that, Miss Westfall, then why are you here?” she asked at last.

Bridget studied her. “If I was to help you,” she said after a moment, “how do I know you wouldn’t try to use the tape against me anyway?”

“You’d have to trust me,” she said with a tight smile.

Bridget stood up without warning.

“Not playing anymore, Miss Westfall?” Ferguson asked as she sat back with a superior smile on her face. “What a pity.”

“I don’t need to play,” Bridget told her. “I’m not the one facing a murder charge.”

She walked towards the door. The silence followed her. Bridget hoped her assessment of Joan Ferguson was correct. She had based it on everything she had seen during her time at Wentworth and her professional opinion. If she was wrong both she and Franky would have to face the consequences.

“Franky Doyle will betray you,” Ferguson said suddenly. “It’s in her nature.”

Bridget kept walking. She had stopped listening. Ferguson was trying to make her second guess her loyalties. The woman preyed on people’s vulnerabilities. She was good at it. She had manipulated Vera and Jodie almost without effort. Even Bridget had been forced to resign. Franky had been the one to call her bluff, to stand defiantly against her. Matt Fletcher had tried it and almost paid for it with his life. Jess Warner did lose her life.

When she arrived home she found Franky waiting for her. She seemed edgy, impatient. She moved restlessly from the kitchen to the couch and back again. Bridget asked her how the meeting with her father had gone.

Franky shrugged off the question. “I need to talk to you,” she said instead. She crossed her arms against her chest. “I kissed Erica Davidson.” She blurted it out then watched as Bridget absorbed her words. “Last night, in her car,” she added the details. “I should have told you. Fuck,” she muttered when she saw Bridget’s expression. “I’m sorry,” she offered lamely.

“You’re sorry you kissed her or sorry you didn’t tell me?” Bridget asked after a moment.

Franky frowned. “I’m sorry I let you down,” she said quietly. Sorry that she was responsible for taking some of the light from Bridget’s eyes.

Bridget sighed. “What do you want, Franky?” She asked eventually.

“I don’t want to lose you.” That much she was sure about. What that meant though, she was less sure about. Bridget was so intricately tied up in Franky’s salvation, it was impossible to know whether her feelings were based on gratitude, love or something else entirely.    

Bridget already felt like she was losing something. That day when Kim Chang had flung her arms around Franky, she had realised for the first time that she was affected by the charismatic prisoner. When the rumours had started she had done what she could to protect both Franky and herself from them. She hadn’t reckoned with Franky though, who didn’t see what Bridget was trying to do, and who forced Bridget to confront her feelings head on. Seeing Franky kissing Erica Davidson triggered another realisation.

“You won’t lose me,” Bridget reassured her. “I’m not going anywhere.” She saw the relief in Franky’s eyes. “Do you want to be with Erica?” The question made Bridget seem brave and resilient, and she was. She had lost a child and nothing she had faced since compared to that.

Those green eyes were full of anguish. “Erica was the first person to believe in me, she helped me when no one else gave a fuck. That meant a lot to me,” Franky tried to explain. She wanted Bridget to understand. “She had a major impact on my life inside. Before Erica I was just some smartarse wannabe whose only goal was to topple Jacs Holt. I got my HSC because of her. I began studying law because of her. She was the person who made me realise I could be better than I was.”

“What does she mean to you now though?” Bridget asked with a small sigh, tilting her head slightly.

“What?” Franky asked with a confused frown.

“Everything you just talked about, it was two years ago, Franky,” Bridget pointed out. “A lot of water has passed under the bridge.”

A few weeks ago Franky might have said Erica was nothing more than the girl that got away, the one that left a slightly regretful aftertaste. A few weeks ago she might have said Erica was just a catalyst, someone who had walked into her life at the right moment and helped her to see she had more potential than she realised. Franky might have said she had built up her own expectations because she had never experienced someone giving her that kind of positive attention. Now she wondered if the reverse was true, that she had been a catalyst for Erica, the woman who made Erica realise what she really wanted. She wondered if their meeting had been pivotal to both their lives. Franky didn’t believe in fate or destiny. Things happened because people made choices.

Franky’s eyes returned to Bridget. “I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “All I know is that Erica kissed me and I kissed her back.” She didn’t know how Bridget would react to that but she wanted to be honest.

The small hope that what she thought she had seen had been something else died in Bridget. Franky’s words left her in no doubt. All that was left was how they would deal with it, where they went from here. “You need to work that out.” She said eventually.

Franky saw the price of honesty in that reply. When someone gives you trust and you reward it with something not worthy of trust then what is left is just a sticky residue. Just enough to remind you that you had something special and you lost it.


	7. Straight Talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows directly on from the previous chapter so you might want to reread that last conversation. Win

Franky closed her eyes. Suddenly she felt weary beyond words. If she could have found a hole to crawl inside she would have welcomed it and taken refuge gladly. There was no hole though, except the one she had dug for herself. She opened her eyes. Bridget hadn’t finished.

“You tell me you’ve kissed this woman but you can’t tell me why or what you want. What am I supposed to do with that?” Bridget watched those green eyes blink with the impact of her words.

Franky shook her head slightly as though she didn’t know either. “I didn’t have to tell you,” she said at last. Franky knew it was a desperate scrambling defence. It sounded like a petulant plea from a lost cause.

“Do you honestly think that’s good enough?” Bridget asked with disbelief. “I trusted you, Franky. I thought you respected me.” Franky hated herself in that moment. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Bridget and yet in that one careless moment she had and now she couldn’t even explain why. The bitter taste of remorse flooded through her. She wished Bridget would yell at her or hit her because at least that kind of response she understood. “How do you think it made me feel, seeing you kiss someone else?”

“You saw it,” Franky said with a sinking heart. “You never said anything.”

“No,” Bridget replied, “Because I hoped you would.”

“And I did,” Franky pointed out, feeling hopeful for a moment, “because I want to be honest with you,” she went on sincerely in an attempt to regain lost ground. “I do respect you and I care about you. I know I fucked up.” Bridget could see Franky was uncomfortable.   She wasn’t used to apologising for her actions.

“It’s not enough to say you respect me and care about me, Franky. If you want to be with me then it has to be in an adult relationship. I’m not interested in shallow or destructive.” Bridget didn’t pull any punches. Franky had to know what her expectations were. “I want to be with you,” she said after a moment, “but not like this.”

“Okay,” Franky felt defeated. “I don’t know where that leaves us.”

“That’s up to you,” Bridget told her. “You need to work out what it is you want.”

“What if I decide I want to be with Erica?” Franky asked. She worried about the consequences of that decision.

Bridget heard what Franky was really asking. “I will be here for you, no matter what, I don’t want you to base your decisions around whether or not you’ll lose me.”

Franky watched her, looking for something that belied her words but she could see nothing other than open, heartfelt honesty. “Why would you do that?” She asked with genuine curiosity. Franky had limited exposure to that kind of altruism.

“I care about you.” Bridget told her. “I want you to be happy and safe.”

It didn’t make sense to Franky who was ruled by her emotions and reacted accordingly. In contrast Bridget was calmly telling her to make her choice without fear or doubt, and that Franky could rely on her. “So you don’t care if I choose Erica?” She asked with a frown.

“Of course I do,” Bridget said immediately. “After everything I’ve said, why would you think that?”

Which made it even worse because now it seemed that Franky was doubting Bridget’s sincerity even though it was her own that was in question. “Forget it,” she said quickly, “I’m talking shit.” It was half-hearted.

Bridget’s hands were on her hips. “Yeah, Franky, you are,” she said shortly.

A bed can be a lonely place regardless of whether or not you are alone in it. There was barely a pillow width between Franky and Bridget that night and yet the gap may as well have been Bass Strait for all the comradery between them. They had followed their evening ritual but Franky had been quieter than usual. In prison when things had gone to shit, Franky would keep her own company. She would vanish into her cell, reading or studying or just curled up on her bed but never for long. Franky liked action and control and skulking in her cell didn’t give her either of those.

She was out of her depth she realised. She had always been the one to dictate and maintain control of her relationships and she’d always made sure they weren’t too serious. They were heavy on the fun and sex and if anyone wanted anything more Franky moved on without regret or angst. As she stared at the celling she wondered if she was unconsciously doing it again. Was this how it was always going to be with her? When relationships challenged her, would she sabotage them rather than face her real fear of being abandoned by someone she cared about?

“Maybe we should just forget about it,” she said rashly in the darkness. “Maybe I’m just no good at this.” The words were out before she realised and there was angst etched in every inflection. In the silence that followed, Franky wanted desperately to unsay them.

Then Bridget spoke. “I’m not giving up on you,” she said softly, “and you shouldn’t either.”

Franky found Bridget’s hand in the darkness and held it tightly. She felt slightly better. Then Bridget gave her hand a squeeze. “Good night,” she said and withdrew her hand from Franky’s grasp. They both fell into a troubled sleep.

"You're right."                                     

Erica sat up in bed and fumbled for the bedside lamp. She had answered her phone with her eyes still closed. She had expected Ben's voice but to her surprise she heard instead the now familiar soft Irish tones.

"Governments aren't visionary."

"Sorry?" Erica was having trouble focussing. "What time is it?"

"One a.m." Louisa told her.

"You rang just to tell me you agree with me?" Erica asked with the confusion that came from waking suddenly.

Louisa Kelly laughed lightly. It was an unexpected pleasure. "No," she admitted. "I wanted to say governments aren't visionary, people are."

"It couldn't wait?" Erica asked. "Until tomorrow?"

"I couldn't sleep," Louisa Kelly told her. "I was thinking about what you said." As though it was somehow Erica's own fault that she was being disturbed in the middle of the night.

"I'm flattered but-" she said with a stifled yawn.

"Well don't be," Louisa interrupted her. "I was irritated by what you said."

"You just said you agreed with me," Erica pointed out.

"But it made me think," she said as though Erica hadn't spoken. "It's people who are visionary," she repeated firmly. "Individuals with passion and drive and determination are the ones that can make a difference. Don't you think?"

"Of course," Erica agreed, rubbing her brow, "but that isn't enough. They also need opportunity."

"Exactly," Louisa Kelly replied immediately. "I'm glad you agree." She said as though the conversation was over and a decision had been made.

"I'm not sure I am agreeing," Erica said cautiously. Her brain still felt half a beat behind the music.

"We have a moment here, Erica, to make a difference. You are uniquely placed to influence outcomes.” It was the exact opposite to what Erica had been thinking just a few days ago. “If what you told me is true, and I believe it is having looked into your background, then you want to help these women as much as I do." She paused. "So think about it."

This time the conversation was over. Before Erica could speak she realised there was no one there. She switched off the light but didn’t go to sleep immediately. She was thinking about what Louisa Kelly had said about making a difference.

Franky eyed the clear unmarred surface of the pool. It was perfect. The early morning sun caught the water causing it to sparkle. The straight black line on the bottom stretched out before her beckoning her, guiding her. The lane markers provided a narrow frame in which to work, a structure at odds with her confused mind but welcome. She had told Bridget she needed to think and she had walked down to the local aquatic and leisure centre. The pool was empty. No one was up this early on a Sunday morning.

It was her first swim since her release. Her swimmers felt tight. She was bigger than before she had gone inside, bulked up from all the gym work. The halter neck top was easy to adjust but her bikini bottoms dug in around her arse. She was standing on the blocks, toes curled over the rough surface of the edge rocking slightly on the balls of her feet, pausing for a moment with anticipation. Then without warning she dived, cutting through the glassy surface like a seal. The water was cooling, calming, cleansing and she fell easily into a rhythmic steady stroke.

She had borrowed Bridget’s goggles so she could watch the black line and then the sun as she turned her head to breathe. She let her mind settle into the routine until it no longer thought about the repetitive action. The initial resistance to the different use of her muscles faded as remembered sensations took over and her body embraced the new activity. Running had been her saviour inside, it had kept her sane, and she had found running on a treadmill had the same repetitive mindlessness as swimming laps.

Erica was drinking coffee. She’d had a restless night thanks to Louisa Kelly. Her mind had dwelt on what the other woman had said. Her frustrations recently over her role and its limitations were suddenly put into perspective. Perhaps it wasn’t the role that was the problem at all but it was her attitude towards it. She had seen it as a stepping stone, somewhere to learn the ropes and develop the network she would need to launch a political career. Now she wondered if she had limited herself. Listening to Louisa Kelly talk had re-ignited her passion for helping these vulnerable women at an individual, grassroots level.

She picked up her phone and sent a text saying “can we meet?” then went and had a shower.

Franky rested her forearms on the edge of the pool and caught her breath. She’d lost count at lap eight but thought she must have done at least the same again, which was mammoth for her first time back in the pool. It showed how much fitter she was now.

“I like your tattoo.”

Franky looked up and around to find a woman of similar age watching her. She’d had a vague awareness of someone else swimming a couple of lanes away for a while. She guessed it had been this woman.

“Which one?” Franky asked, shading her eyes from the sun to get a better look at her companion. She was small and slim with short brown hair that curled slightly in its half dry state. Her sunglasses hid her eyes. She was sitting on the side of the pool with her legs dangling in the water.

“The naked woman,” she said, “did you get it done locally?”

Franky pulled herself out of the water and turned herself in a fluid movement so she too was perched on the edge of the pool. Her muscles flexed in the motion. “Nah,” she said. She thought about the person she had been when she got that tattoo. Cocky, angry, careless, back then it had told the world who she was and what she liked. There had been defiance in that tattoo. Now it was so much a part of her persona she couldn’t imagine being without it.

“I’ve only just moved to Melbourne,” the woman said, “so I’m always looking for recommendations, you know?” She smiled.

“Well, I’ve kinda been out of circulation for a while so,” Franky shrugged. I can’t help you, it said.

“You’ve got a lovely stroke,” she said unexpectedly. “In the pool,” she added.

Franky laughed. For a moment she hadn’t been sure where the conversation was going. “You reckon?”

She nodded. “I’m Sarah,” she said leaning forward and reaching out over the water offering her hand. “I was going to get changed and grab a coffee, interested?”

Franky hesitated. She needed a coffee and there was something appealing about the stranger. The idea of being distracted from her current dilemma was undoubtedly part of the attraction. “Sure,” she said with an engaging smile.

Erica watched the Sunday morning crowd of café dwellers listening to the conversations then letting them flow over her until all she heard was the pleasant hum of people enjoying themselves.   As she waited she thought about Franky. She felt they were still out of sync even now when their roles and sexuality didn’t divide them anymore. Their conversation the day before had ended abruptly. Erica couldn’t help feeling that mentioning Bridget had been the turning point. She didn’t regret asking her question though. Franky had never been afraid to ask difficult questions of Erica, challenging her to search deep for answers, just as Erica had pushed Franky to think beyond the limitations of her own expectations. It defined their relationship and had been mutually beneficial.

She saw Louisa Kelly scanning the crowd and caught her eye. She was wearing jeans and a bright green rugby jersey. Erica remembered the World Cup was in full swing.

“So actually you were up last night to watch the rugby,” Erica said in greeting, “it had nothing to do with me.”

Louisa Kelly sat down. “It was a cracking game,” she said with a wink and a smile. They ordered coffees from a hovering waiter. “I was glad to get your text,” she said when they were alone again.

“I’m intrigued,” Erica admitted. She watched Louisa’s slow smile.

“Good,” she said with satisfaction. “I hoped you’d be.”

“If I help you with this,” Erica wanted to manage expectations early. “I want to be involved in the project. I won’t just be your access to the cash cow.” She expected the CEO to resist any surrender of autotomy but she couldn’t read her expression. It didn’t matter, those were her terms and she wasn’t moving on them.

“Better and better,” Louisa replied sincerely, surprising Erica. “I want you on board, in whatever capacity you can offer. I told you I checked you out, right?” Erica nodded. “Well, your experience and skills will be invaluable. You’re a lawyer, and have practical experience developing and delivering social and educational programmes to women prisoners. I hear you are handy in media communication too.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly and Erica wondered who had been feeding Louisa Kelly with information. “I want the right people involved in this at the beginning, and you’re one of them. I knew it from that first meeting of the Women’s Advisory Board when you stood up to me then won me over.”

Erica was surprised for the second time in a minute. “I won you over?” It wasn’t her recollection of the event. Louisa Kelly had fired numerous shots not overhead in warning but directly into the Government’s well-padded side.

“Absolutely,” she admitted, “you were pretty impressive, not at all intimated by the opposition, very cool and classy.”

Erica knew the Irish were attributed with the gift of the gab and she felt it keenly in that moment. Louisa Kelly was charming her. Those unusual eyes twinkled as she spoke and her melodic voice was like syrup mesmerising Erica.

“We should have a drink, to celebrate,” Louisa said suddenly, conclusively, sitting back and looking for the waiter.

The spell was broken. Louisa ordered wines from a passing waiter as Erica also sat back. She smiled impulsively when Louisa caught her eye and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“What’s the gym like here?” Sarah asked as she set down her coffee. She looked enquiringly at Franky with soft brown eyes. The girl was younger than she had appeared in her swimmers and sunglasses, maybe early twenties.

Franky shrugged. “Dunno,” she folded her arms across her chest and rocked back on her chair. “My girlfriend has a membership. She lent me her card today but I’ve never used the facilities.”

She was regretting this. Her mind couldn’t deal with the polite conversation of strangers. She wished now she had declined the invitation and had been left in peace to mull over her predicament.  

“Oh,” the girl was saying, she sounded put out and Franky wondered if it was the lesbian reference then dismissed it. Surely the girl knew she was gay from the tattoo she had admired. “It’s just I’m looking for a gym and it’s always good to have inside knowledge.” She smiled.

Franky nodded but didn’t smile in return. There was something odd about this girl. It wasn’t anything obvious but Franky had good judgement and she trusted her instincts.

“You’re into girls,” Sarah said with a shy smile as though she wasn’t sure of Franky’s reaction. “Cool,” she nodded, “I like to dabble.”

Franky frowned. She couldn’t decide if the girl was hitting on her or just clueless. Either way, it was time to make her excuses. She picked up her phone. “I need to be somewhere.” She said a little dismissively. “See ya round, yeah?” She stood up.

“I think my therapist goes to this gym,” Sarah said without acknowledgement of Franky’s words. “So I guess I could ask her what it’s like,” she said with a sudden smile as she looked up at her companion.

“Right,” Franky agreed. She left without a backward glance, texting and walking at the same time. It wasn’t until she was in the car park that her mind reversed up to reconsider Sarah’s last words.

Erica heard her phone beep. It was Franky wanting to meet. It was a good sign. She looked up to find Louisa watching her curiously. “I have to meet a friend soon,” she said apologetically.

“Sure,” the Irish woman said easily, “you’ve time for another though?”

Erica thought it would take Franky at least half an hour to arrive so she gave into the persuasive tone. They spent the time enjoying a crisp white wine and continuing their discussion about the project. Louisa had done a lot of planning work already and had people involved from various professions, mostly on a volunteer basis. Usually the development work for these types of social programs was done by experts who volunteered their time. Erica’s time would be provided free of charge too. Louisa’s enthusiasm was contagious and Erica felt excited by possibility.

The time passed quickly and they were still talking when Franky arrived. Erica introduced her then Louisa took her leave a few moments later. Franky watched her go. “She’s not your girlfriend, huh?” She asked as she sat down.

“No, of course not,” Erica said dismissively. Franky just raised her eyebrows and grinned as though she didn’t believe her. “Why would you even think that?” She asked, slightly irritated that Franky didn’t seem disturbed by the idea.

“Well, she’s a lesbian,” Franky told her, “and you seem, I don’t know,” Franky studied her, “animated.” She said at last.

“She’s not,” Erica said immediately, “I’m not,” she added. “Is she?”

Franky laughed. “Yeah,” she said with certainty. “Didn’t you know?”

“No,” Erica thought back on all her interactions with Louisa Kelly. “How are you so sure?”

Franky shrugged. “It’s just a vibe really, I mean sometimes it is so obvious because they advertise it, but with her it’s subtle.”

“So you could be wrong,” Erica pointed out.

Franky smiled. “I’m not wrong,” she insisted. “My record is pretty sound. I picked you, didn’t I?”

Erica gave up. “It’s good to see you,” she said instead. “I didn’t think I would after our conversation yesterday,” she admitted.

Franky’s eyes flickered. “I wasn’t in a good place yesterday.”

Erica nodded. “Your dad?”

“Yeah,” Franky agreed. “I shouldn’t have dumped that shit on you,” she acknowledged.

“For what’s it worth,” Erica paused, waiting for Franky’s eyes to come back to her. “I think you should see him before you judge him.”

“Bit late for that,” Franky muttered. She tapped her foot impatiently and she glanced at the group at table next to them. The café had transitioned from the brunch crowd and was now filled with the lunch crowd.

“I could go with you, if you want.” Erica offered suddenly. She wondered if some of Franky’s reluctance stemmed from a fear of rejection. Franky didn’t answer. Erica watched her. It still seemed a little strange to see her in jeans and a sleeveless top that wasn’t white or teal. She smiled suddenly.

“What is it?” Franky asked curiously.

"I was thinking about when I first met you," Erica admitted. "Do you remember?" She asked with another smile. Franky just nodded. "You walked into that higher school certificate class, stopped dead in your tracks and said-“

“-now I understand the point of being teacher's pet." Franky finished for her with a grin. She had been so angry and messed up back then, and blaming everyone for letting her down. Not understanding that she could choose to take control and by doing that, take responsibility for her life. It had been a hard lesson to learn. "I went to that class because I had pissed off Jacs Holt by running a drug smuggling operation and not cutting her in on the action. I needed to avoid laundry duty where I knew Jacs was waiting to teach me a lesson." She had stayed though because of Erica. "It changed my life." She said sincerely. For a moment she was lost in that memory of three years ago when the world was black as teal and the only colour in it was Miss Erica Davidson.

Erica watched her lost in thought. “Franky,” she said quietly then she put her hand over the slim tanned wrist to bring her back to the present. It drew Franky’s eyes back to her. “What are we doing here?”

“Huh?” Franky asked with confusion.

“Well, Friday you kiss me, Saturday you tell me you’re with Bridget, Sunday we’re here,” Erica frowned.

Franky remembered that confused frown from Wentworth. It distracted her. Erica hadn’t removed her hand and Franky felt the warm intimacy of her touch then she remembered why she was here. “The past can’t sustain us,” she said. The past was a very different place to Franky’s present and, she hoped, her future.

“I know that,” Erica said quietly. “It’s not the past I’m interested in.”

Franky’s expression was rueful. She was getting a taste of her own medicine and she had to laugh at the irony.  “I want to be straight with you,” she began to say when she saw Erica smile. “I’m being serious,” she told her with a reluctant grin. “Don’t have any expectations of me.” She said more soberly. “You and me, our timing’s out,” she withdrew her hand. It was final, it was clear. Erica could hardly misinterpret her message.

Erica sat back. Franky sounded determined to make a point. Erica felt a little disappointed but not surprised. She wondered if Franky had an answer to the question she had asked her the previous day.    “Okay,” she said at last.

“Okay?” Franky was suspicious. Their kiss told Franky that Erica wasn’t ambivalent to her.

Erica shrugged. “If you say so,” she confirmed. “How’s the job going?” She asked, effectively closing down the discussion.

It was Franky’s turn to shrug. “It’s data entry,” she said dismissively. Franky had been put in front of a computer and handed a pile of files and told to enter the details into the database. It was mind-numbing work and Franky kept herself entertained by thinking up alternative defence strategies for the cases she was entering.

“Oh,” Erica frowned. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” she said after a moment. “They’ll work out you’re smarter than that soon enough,” she smiled. “And if they don’t, you’ll have to show them.”

Franky, who had been feeling the disappointment of unfulfilled expectations over the job at Legal Aid, suddenly realised that she was limited not by her job description but by her own lack of initiative. “Yeah,” she agreed with a grin. For a moment they smiled at each other in perfect agreement. “I’ve gotta go,” Franky said after a moment. She picked up her phone and looked at Erica. “We okay?” Her green eyes held a question. Erica just nodded. “Good,” she felt suddenly glad that she had been honest with Erica. She walked away feeling they had a clear and consistent understanding.

Bridget had talked tough but her heart was hurting. She had been at home but her thoughts had been poor company. On impulse she had grabbed her car keys and gone to the shops, even if she had no purpose for being there at least she had left the house where the silence had been heavy. It had never bothered her before. The silence at home had been a calm quiet and being alone had been soothing but not today. Franky’s absence had made her feel lonely and the silence had become a stranger not a friend. Today had shown her that Franky’s presence was no dimmer in her absence. The gap she left was as noticeable as her tattoos and smile.

She came home with stuff. Her interest in shopping directly correlated to her anxiety levels and right now they were high. Her purchases hadn't been at all sensible or necessary or even cheap. For instance, she had bought a second laptop so Franky could use it for her uni without worrying about whether Bridget needed to work. Considering Bridget wasn't even sure whether Franky would still be there next week, some might question that impulse buy. She had also stopped at a Bunnings store and bought stuff for the vegetable garden. She had found three new jackets for work as well. These added to the collection already hanging in her wardrobe. None of these purchases helped her heart.

She was in love with Franky. She wasn't sure when it had happened but she had been on a slippery slope from the moment Franky had opened up to her. Maybe it had even happened then, in that moment, when Franky had shared something so personal and exposed her vulnerability so completely, knowing the price she could pay for doing it. Bridget had felt the power of that trust. She would never break it.

She would never desert Franky but she also wasn't prepared to be a carpet for Franky to walk all over either. It wasn't in Bridget's personality to be that. They had to be equals, she and Franky, or nothing.

She heard footsteps up the path and looked up expectantly, hoping to see Franky but instead a young woman appeared looking curiously at Bridget, who had two bags of manure in her arms for the vegetable garden.

"Can I help you?" She asked as she juggled the heavy bags onto each hip.

"I was looking for Franky," the woman said.

"She's not here at the moment," Bridget told her. The girl looked disappointed. She wondered if she was from Franky's course at university.   "Can I give her a message?"

"She left this at the pool," she held out a card for Bridget to take, "on the table when we had coffee," she added. "I wanted to return it." Bridget took it with some difficulty. "Let me help," she offered quickly and rescued one of the bags from under Bridget's arm. Bridget saw it was her gym card that the girl had given her. "Where did you want these?" The girl asked, already walking down the small path that was squeezed in between the house and the fence. Bridget followed her reluctantly.

When Franky arrived at the Hawthorn townhouse there was no sign of Bridget. She saw signs of activity. There were empty manure bags near the vegetable garden and the bed had been recently dug over. A shovel was lying nearby on the grass and punnets of seedlings were waiting to be planted. It looked as though Bridget had abandoned the task in haste.

Franky was disappointed. She wanted to clear the air with Bridget and make things right between them if she could. She knew Bridget had a conference in the Gold Coast the following week and they wouldn't see much of each other. She set about removing the seedlings and planting them in neat rows, finishing the job Bridget had started.

When she was done she lay down on the grass and closed her eyes. She heard bees buzzing in the lavender and the warm sun was soporific. Franky felt sleepy after the restless night she’d had and early energetic start. She knew she should be writing her law essay but she felt too lazy to move.

She woke suddenly and saw Bridget crouched on her haunches next to her, watching her, her hand resting on Franky’s arm. “Where have you been?” she asked, still dazed from her nap. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You’ve been asleep,” Bridget pointed out. She began to get up.

As she withdrew her hand, Franky took it and held it in her own. “Wait,” she said quickly. “I don’t want you to be angry with me,” she said softly.

“I’m not angry with you,” Bridget told her.

“Or disappointed,” Franky added. She heard Bridget sigh. “I thought about everything you said, and what I want,” she paused.

Bridget felt the crushing weight of expectation. “And, what did you decide?”

“When I met you I began to believe that what I’d hoped for might actually happen, then you left – “

“Franky,” Bridget began to interrupt.

“You left,” Franky repeated more firmly, “and everything went to shit, and I thought I wouldn’t get out of there. Then you came back and said that stuff at my parole hearing and I thought maybe but even when I got my parole I risked it because I didn’t believe I’d ever get out of that place.”

“But you did,” Bridget pointed out. She shifted slightly. The balancing act was beginning to hurt.

“My point is,” Franky continued seriously. “When I’m with you, I believe anything is possible. You make me feel that way.” She rubbed her brow. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted, “but I want to try.” She sat up. “If you’ll let me.” She took hold of Bridget’s other hand. “Will you?”

Bridget’s eyes creased around the edges as she smiled. “Yes,” she said with relief. Her heart tightened as Franky smiled at her. As they kissed Bridget leant forward and lost her balance taking Franky down too in the process.

Not that Franky minded. She pulled Bridget to her and held her close. Yesterday she hadn’t been sure she would get to hold Bridget again. A phone rang.   “Don’t answer it,” Franky murmured.

Bridget already had her phone out though. Franky watched with resignation, letting Bridget disentangle herself.

“That was my friend Lou, I’ve been helping her out on a project, and it looks like she might have secured funding for it,” Bridget told Franky when she had hung up. “We’re going to meet up later in the week.”

Franky was just relieved it wasn’t that afternoon. She wanted to spend what was left of the weekend with Bridget. “Great,” she murmured.

“You should meet her,” Bridget had a sudden thought “you’d like her. She’s a bit of a party girl and very passionate about her work. I’ll invite her for dinner.”

“I’ll cook,” Franky offered. “What does she like, your friend?”

“Well, she’s Irish so she’ll eat practically anything,” Bridget said with a laugh. “You could invite your friend,” she suggested.

Franky frowned. “My friend?”

“Yeah, from the pool,” Bridget explained, “she came round to drop off the gym card. She said you’d left it there. I gave her a lift home.”

Franky made the connection. “She came here?” she asked just to be certain. She put her hand in her back pocket where she had slipped Bridget’s card at the gym. It wasn’t there.

She remembered when she had last used it. It had been at the cashier in the coffee shop when she had showed it to get the 10 per cent discount. She had slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. Sarah had been behind her, waiting to order, and she had bumped Franky accidently blaming the guy who had come up behind her in the queue. Now Franky realised it hadn’t been an accident at all.

“What did she look like?” Franky asked just to be certain.

“Short brown hair, slim, about my height, she said her name was Sarah,” Bridget offered. “What is it?”

“I never left your card at the gym,” Franky said slowly. “That bitch swiped it from me.”

“Are you sure?” Bridget asked with a frown.

“Yeah,” Franky said with certainty. “What did she want?”

“Nothing,” Bridget said immediately. “I mean, she just gave back the card then helped me with the bags of manure. We chatted for a while,” Bridget tried to recall the conversation.

“And you didn’t know her?” Franky asked.

Bridget shook her head. “Why would I?”

Franky was watching Bridget. “Something she said, about her therapist being a member of the gym. It didn’t click until afterwards but then I wondered if she was one of your patients.”

“No,”  Bridget said slowly. “What do you think she wants?”

Franky shrugged.  “Dunno, here’s a question though, how did she get this address?  It’s not on the card,” she pointed out then added with a laugh, “I hope she’s not a fucking psychopath.”

That made Bridget think of another psychopath they both knew. Joan Ferguson had been strangely quiet since the psychologist’s last visit. She wondered what she was plotting.


	8. Chess Moves

Franky was standing across the street from the neat brown house. She'd been drawn back there despite her determination to move on. Bridget had gone to her conference at the beginning of the week and Franky had spent the next two days frantically finishing her essay. Now she had a free afternoon. It was the perfect opportunity to make contact with her father. And yet she hesitated, uncharacteristically, at the moment of action. Franky reflected, assessed options but once she had decided her path she took it without doubt. That was her nature. Except now she felt incapable of taking a step forward, across the street, down the tidy path, up the front step, to the plain but freshly painted front door.

She took out her phone and brought up her contacts. She scrolled down to Bridget but hesitated, her girlfriend would probably have her phone switched off while she was in the conference. She dialled anyway, hopeful, only to be disappointed when she heard Bridget’s professional recording. She didn’t leave a message. She stared at the house. Then she remembered it was Erica who had encouraged her to give her father the benefit of the doubt.

"Hello," Erica answered on the third ring. "I only have a moment," she said immediately. "The Minister is wrapping up an interview."

"Sure," Franky said. She didn't seem in a great hurry to speak though. "You like all that political shit, do you?" She asked randomly.

It was a difficult question to answer in Erica's view. "Sometimes," she settled for. "Franky, I really have to go, I'll call you back later," she said apologetically.

"I'm at my dad's," Franky said in a rush before Erica had a chance to end the call.

"Ah, I see," Erica replied, suddenly enlightened. "You decided to give him a chance."

"I dunno," Franky answered dismissively.

There was a pause before Erica said, "What have you got to lose, that you haven't already lost?"

She was right. There was nothing to lose surely? Everything had been lost a long time ago. As Franky watched, her dad appeared through a side gate. He looked the same as he had when he had visited her in prison and she had turned him away. Everything was lost but one thing she realised suddenly. "Hope," she said quietly as she watched him enter the house through the front door. Even as she said it she knew she would risk even that.

Bridget was thinking about Ferguson. It was her next step which intrigued the psychologist. They were playing chess, the two of them, psychological chess. Sarah was a Ferguson pawn, she had decided, put into play to gauge the calibre of the opposition. Depending on Bridget's response, Ferguson would piece together a strategy for the game. She suspected the Governor would up the ante with the next move. What that might look like was another question entirely. While Ferguson still felt she could manipulate her, she and Franky would remain safe, Bridget was certain, but if she felt otherwise, well Mathew Fletcher was evidence of that.

Bridget had taken a risk walking out on Ferguson when they had last met. She was expecting her to give up the recording because there would be others. Franky had suggested there might even be a copy on Ferguson's laptop, currently impounded by the police but Bridget didn't think that was likely. The Governor was far too cunning for that and besides, her ex had been a cop and Bridget knew they had IT experts that would have trawled through those files. If it had been there Franky would have already received a visit.

It bothered her that she had had to leave town just now. It was only for a few days and Franky could look after herself but she would have been happier if she could have postponed the trip.

There was nothing to be done but wait. She had effectively thrown down the gauntlet to Ferguson, daring her to call Bridget's bluff. If she made contact now, Joan Ferguson would have them right where she wanted them. She glanced at the programme, looked at her watch and wondered what Franky was doing.

"You're out then," Alan Doyle stated, looking curiously and warily at his daughter. "Caitlin said you came by." At least he’d guessed from the description it must have been his daughter.

"Caitlin?" Franky raised her eyebrows. "That your wife's name?" Franky barely kept the accusatory tone from her voice. "And your daughter, Gemma is it?”  This time she couldn't stop it from seeping through. "And your son?" She rattled them off like a sniper, each one carefully fired off intending to wound. They only ended up hurting her though.

"Jenna," her father corrected her, "and Mick." Franky just nodded. She folded her arms across her chest. "Why don't you come inside and meet them?" He offered tentatively. "Caitlin's not home from work yet but the kids are here." He opened the fly screen, slipping his hand along the wire mesh to the handle to hold the door open for her. She had a memory of her dad doing the exact same thing when she was a child. "Come on," he had encouraged her, "don't you want your birthday present?" She remembered how excited she had felt when she heard those words. She couldn't remember the gift or what happened afterwards just how she felt in that moment and her father's smile.

She looked at him now, waiting patiently for her to decide. His eyes, lighter than hers, looked hopeful and a little sad. As though he too was remembering the little girl he'd lost. She took a step forward and his eyes creased as he smiled at her.

The living area was small but neat. The boy was on a tablet and didn't look up, the girl was nowhere to be seen. "Jenna!" Franky's dad called up the hall. When she arrived, looking expectant, she stared at Franky with open curiosity. She was about fifteen with strawberry blonde hair and aqua eyes and freckles that swarmed across her fair skin like a disease. She had her father's freckles, Franky thought randomly. "This is Franky," Alan Doyle introduced her in a gruff voice, "she's your half-sister."

It wasn't as bad as her first day in prison but it was up there. The awkward period when her father disappeared to find cool drinks and her half siblings stared at her like she was a specimen particularly reminded her of prison. They weren't hostile like inmates but they were certainly assessing how this newcomer might upset the carefully balanced dynamics. The girl was definitely concerned, and Franky could sense her tension.

"Relax, kid," she told her eventually. "I'm not here to play happy families." She wasn't sure exactly why she was there, or at least what she wanted from this. She tapped her foot as she looked at the life she had missed out on.

Her dad handed her a coke and sat down in the remaining chair. "You need anything?" He asked with gruff concern. "Money? You got a place to stay?"

Franky saw Jenna frown at her dad. "I'm good," she told him. "I don't need anything from you." It sounded bitter.

"You working then?" He asked without reacting to her tone.

"And studying," Franky told him. "Legal studies at uni."

"There’s never been a Doyle at university," he said, sounding impressed.

"Until now you mean," Franky clarified for him.

"It's good to see you here," he said in reply. "Didn't think I would," he admitted simply. "Not after what you said."

Franky remembered her words to him. They had been raw with anger and disappointment. They had been crafted to hurt as she had been hurt. "Doesn't look like you missed me," she couldn't help saying.

Alan Doyle glanced at his two other children. "Why don't you two go down to the takeaway and pick up some pizzas for tea?" He pulled out a couple of twenties from his wallet and handed them to Jenna then patted her shoulder to reassure her.

Franky watched them leave. "I met Caitlin two years after I left your mother," Alan Doyle told her. He saw the look on Franky’s face. “And you,” he added. "I never thought I'd have another child but Cait wanted kids and I knew she would be a good mum." Franky just shrugged. "We had Mick then Jenna just 13 months later." He scratched his stubble. "I tried to find you," he said eventually, "but it wasn't easy and in the end it was only that reality TV show," he tailed off. It sounded too little, too late when he condensed it down into words like that. "I never stopped thinking about you." Franky couldn’t help laughing at the irony. "You're angry." He acknowledged.

Franky watched him.  "I was angry," she admitted, "but not now," she knew in that moment why she was there. She drew in her breath. "I want to forgive you." As she said it, she felt a burden lift from her shoulders.

Her father smiled. Maybe it wasn't too late.

That night Franky woke suddenly from a dream. She had been back in Wentworth, in the shower blocks washing her hair and as she rinsed off the shampoo she looked down. The suds that were gathering around the drain had a reddish hue. Then she realised the water was coloured with blood. She was bleeding. She searched frantically for the wound. There was none. She couldn’t understand it. She went to the stall next door and pulled aside the curtain. Jodie was slashing herself with a knife. Even as Franky watched more and more blood ran down Jodie’s naked frame. Franky tried to stop her but Jodie just cried out “It’s too late, you’re too late!”

Franky didn’t believe her, didn’t want to believe her. She tried desperately to restrain Jodie. The knife slashed dangerously but Franky was well versed in dodging weapons. Then she was pulled away suddenly. As she struggled to free herself she heard the Freak’s voice. “You did this, Doyle.”

She watched helplessly as Jodie’s frenzied cuts riddled her body until it seemed she was dressed in a red flowing gown that spilled over the white tiles. She crumpled into a lifeless splash of colour. It was too late to help her now.

Franky began to fight furiously against her captor then the Freak was towering above her, a black gloved hand encircled her throat and she felt an uncomfortable pressure. “This is your fault,” she hissed, those cold eyes only centimetres from Franky. “You put her in danger’s way.”

Then suddenly she was released and Ferguson was gone. Franky’s eyes returned to the lifeless form and her heart lurched. It wasn’t Jodie lying there dead – it was Bridget.

Her heart was racing. She felt her neck. The dream had been so vivid she expected it to be bruised from the pressure of Ferguson’s thumb. She looked across to Bridget’s side of the bed but of course it was empty. Bridget wouldn’t be back until Friday.

Just then she heard something out of place. She waited, barely breathing, and she heard it again. Someone was inside the house. Franky got up with the quick quietness of someone used to having to move with stealth. She followed the sound. It came from the laundry. The window had a faulty latch. Franky had done a temporary fix on it just after she’d moved in but clearly it hadn’t secured it completely. When she entered the laundry there was a dark form scrambling out the small window. Franky lunged forward and managed to grab one foot but its pair swung backwards and landed a sharp kick to her jaw. Her eyes watered with the pain and she lost her hold on the intruder.

She swore as the dark clad legs disappeared. She pulled on the door handle but the door was locked, dead locked, and by the time she found the key and raced outside there was no one in sight.

“Fuck,” she muttered and went back inside. She switched on every light in the place and looked to see what was missing. There was nothing obvious. She did her best to secure the laundry window, sent a text to Bridget, and went back to bed.

Her phone woke her four hours later. It was Bridget.

“Hello,” she said with a sleepy smile in her voice.

“Are you okay?” Bridget asked, she sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” Franky reassured her. She gingerly touched the sensitive side of her jaw.

“What happened?” Franky filled her in. “Did you call the police?”

“Nope,” Franky told her. “No point, nothing was taken and the perp would have been long gone.”

“What did they want?” Bridget asked after a moment. It didn’t make sense to her. Her mind began pursuing the riddle of possibilities.

Franky didn’t have an answer. “How’s it going up there?” she asked instead.

Bridget told Franky about her conference. “Sounds dull Gidget,” Franky concluded, “sitting around listening to a bunch of psychs crap on about fucking crazies. I could tell them a few things that would curl their pubes, no fucking lie.”

Bridget tried to imagine Franky speaking at the conference about her prison experience. She thought Franky would probably be a captivating public speaker. “I think you should report what happened to the police,” Bridget returned to their earlier discussion. “What if they were just casing the place? What if they’re coming back? I don’t like it.”

Franky thought it was a waste of time but as Bridget seemed to think it was important and it was her house, she gave way gracefully. “Okay,” she conceded. “You missing me?” She stretched slightly under the warm doona then curled up on her side, waiting for Bridget’s response.

“Yes,” Bridget breathed softly. “I wish you were here.”

Franky smiled. She liked the idea of it even though she knew it was impossible. Even putting aside her work and study commitments, leaving the State would be a breach of her parole conditions. “I’d cramp your style.”

Bridget laughed. “What style?”

“That mature, competent professional thing you’ve got going,” Franky told her. “It’s pretty hot.”

“Okay then,” Bridget said with a smile in her voice. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I went and saw my dad,” Franky told her, suddenly serious.

“How are you feeling?” Bridget asked, wishing suddenly there wasn’t 1,700 km between them. If Franky was feeling fragile she wanted to be there beside her to hold her.

“Better,” Franky told her, and she realised it was the truth.

They chatted some more before Franky had to get ready for work. “You heard anything from Ferguson?” Franky asked as she was about to ring off, remembering her dream. She shook off the memory of Bridget lying lifeless in the shower.

“Nothing,” Bridget told her.

Franky had showered and dressed when she heard the front doorbell. It was a little after 8am. She answered the door with a half-eaten piece of vegemite toast in her hand. Standing on the front porch was Bridget’s artist friend Richard with his black Labrador. “Hey,” Franky said with a smile, lifting her toast out of the way of an appreciative black wet nose. “Bridget’s away.”

“I know,” he replied, “she rang me. Told me about your break in and asked me to lend you Jasper until she gets back.”

Franky looked dubiously at the friendly dog who was waiting patiently by his owner’s side. “Nah,” she said, “I’m good.”

“Take the dog,” Richard told her seriously. “You look like you can take care of yourself but I’ll never hear the end of it from Bridget if I don’t leave him with you.” He handed her two bowls and a lead. “You need to walk him once a day.”

Franky shoved the rest of her toast into her mouth and took Jasper’s possessions. “What does he eat?” She asked through her breakfast.

“Biscuits,” he produced an enormous bag of dog biscuits and piled it on top of the pile Franky was already carrying. “There’s a measuring cup in the bag just give him one serve twice a day and a raw egg on top every second day. It’s good for his coat,” he offered in explanation. “Here’s my number,” he scribbled it down on a piece of paper he produced from a pocket in his jacket and added it to the pile.

The dog seemed reluctant to leave Richard but finally the artist led him into the house then retreated quickly closing the flyscreen to prevent the dog from following him. “Call me if you have any problems.” He said with a smile and a farewell wave to the dog. She and the dog watched him vanish down the street. Jasper whimpered softly.

“Looks like you’ve been abandoned,” Franky told him. She had some sympathy for the dog. She went back to the kitchen and heard Jasper lie down at the screen door to patiently wait for his owner’s return.

The police station was empty. Franky went up to the front desk. There was no sign of life. She looked for a buzzer and gave it a short sharp push. No one answered it. About five minutes later a plain clothes officer came through the front door of the station. She gave Franky the quick once over then went to a side door and swiped her card for entry.

“Hey,” Franky said before she vanished. “What do you have to do around here to get some service?”

“This isn’t Myers,” she told her coldly.

“No shit Sherlock,” Franky muttered then gave the buzzer a long satisfying press.

Finally a fresh faced police officer came into the front reception area and had Franky fill in a form. While she was completing it, the same detective returned and gave Franky a cursory glance as she logged into one of the spare PCs.

“You haven’t completed the insurance section,” the police officer told her as he reviewed the information she’d provided.

“I dunno about the insurance,” Franky told him, “it’s my girlfriend’s place.”

“What’s her name?” he asked with his pen poised over the paper.

“Bridget Westfall,” Franky pointed to where she had filled in the home owner’s details.

“Oh right,” the young man nodded. He made a notation.

“I’ll take it,” the plain clothes officer said as she came up behind him. This time the look she gave Franky was curious.

“It’s just a break and enter, Sarg,” he replied, “the uniforms can deal with it.”

The woman looked annoyed. “This isn’t a debate, Constable,” she snapped. Franky hid a smile.

The young PC looked nervous as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He handed over Franky’s form without another word. The woman glanced over it then looked at Franky. “When will you be home?” she asked.

“Tonight,” Franky told her, “after six.”

“I’ll come by then,” was all she said. Franky just shrugged. She was already late for work.

Erica looked up from her notes. “Anything else?” she asked the Minister.

Ben Lawson thought for a moment. “No,” he said with a brief smile, “unless you have something?” he added.

Erica hesitated. The Minister was in a good mood that morning. The latest polling had put the government four percentage points ahead of the opposition. “There is something actually,” she said, “if you have five minutes.”

He glanced at his watch. “Two,” he replied, “then I have a meeting with the Premier.”

Erica didn’t want to rush it. The last thing she wanted was for the Minister to dismiss her suggestion without giving her time to put forward some persuasive arguments. “It can wait,” she stood up.

“Come on, spit it out,” he said a little impatiently.

She sat down again. “I’ve been approached about funding a new centre for women at risk-” she didn’t get any further.

“Erica,” the Minister said with a condescending smile and slight shake of his head. “One thing you have to appreciate about politics is that people will always be approaching you looking for money. You have to learn to politely dismiss them.”

“Well, I think this has merit,” Erica told him. “It is the brain child of the new CEO at the Open Pathways Foundation. The approach is innovative and well-supported.”

“Well supported?” he raised his eyebrows sceptically. “Why do they need government funding then?”

“They need capital funding for the new centre,” she told him. “The Foundation just doesn’t have the reserves for this kind of infrastructure project.”

Ben didn’t mince words. “My legacy isn’t going to be a white elephant, Erica, you can be sure of that,” he said dismissively.

Mentally she kicked herself for ignoring her better judgement. The conversation was playing out as she had feared. “This won’t be a white elephant,” she assured him. “The financials are structured so it will be self-funded within two years.”

“Forget it,” he stood up. “These organisations can get any number of independent consultants to write a business case which makes the investment look sound.” He put on his suit jacket and collected his phone. “I’ll call you if I need you.” It was a dismissal.

Erica ignored the message from Louisa Kelly. There was no good news to give her. She had stumbled at the first hurdle and needed to re-think her strategy.

Franky came home to find Jasper had dug up most of the seedlings in the vegetable garden and was lying across the rest of them. He seemed pleased enough to see her but also looked past her expectantly. Franky knew what he was looking for. She had done the same thing for years waiting for her father to return. She crouched down and fondled the dog’s ears. “It’s okay buddy,” she told him softly, “he’s coming back.” Jasper listened intently.

She was making pastry when the doorbell rang at 6.30pm. She had planned to make lemon-lime tart for the dinner Bridget had organised. Although Franky didn’t eat dessert often, she liked the challenge of making them. There was a certain precision and attention to detail required to perfect pastry. She answered the door with a cheek smudged with flour and Jasper at her heels.

It was the surly detective from that morning. Although Franky thought they always travelled in pairs, this one was alone. She looked at the dog then at Franky with a question in her eyes.

“He’s on loan,” Franky told her. “He wasn’t here last night.” The detective just nodded. Franky stepped aside to allow her entry.

“Walk me through it,” she requested as she headed down the hall, her trained eyes assessing everything. Franky followed her explaining what had happened the previous night.

She examined the latch on the laundry window. “You’ve touched this?” she queried as she noticed the temporary fix Franky had put in place.

“Yeah,” Franky admitted.

“No point checking for finger prints then,” the detective said drily.

Franky heard the criticism in her tone and words. “I wasn’t going to leave it unsecured, was I?”

“You should have reported it last night,” she chastised her.

Franky laughed. “Are you seriously telling me your lot would have sent a car around?” she raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “The dude was long gone and nothing was taken.”

“It’s not your call,” she told her firmly, “what about the house down the street that he tried next? Where a little old lady lives,” then added, “who can’t protect herself like you can?”

Franky shrugged. She hadn’t thought about that, she acknowledged reluctantly. In prison she had looked after herself, everyone had, that was how it worked. Only Boomer hadn’t understood that. Boomer was blinded by her love for Franky. She put her body in harm’s way again and again to protect her friend without question. Boomer was brave. She didn’t care about consequences. Her loyalty lay with Franky. In Boomer’s world things weren’t complicated. When Franky hadn’t protected her from Bea, she couldn’t understand Franky’s dilemma because to her mind there was none. You protected those you loved without fear because to do otherwise was unfathomable. The complexities of prison politics, which Franky understood and respected, were lost on Boomer. Franky’s response when Boomer called her on her lack of courage was heartfelt and resigned. She knew, as her friend did not, that when she had conceded the top dog position to Bea she had to defer to her authority and not defy her, in public at least. These were the rules she had accepted when she played the game.

The detective was watching her. “Has anything unusual happened recently?”

“Nah,” Franky said immediately but suddenly she thought of the strange girl she had met at the swimming pool and her subsequent visit. Fuck, she was casing the place, Franky realised.

“You sure?” The detective was watching her closely, assessing her.

“Yeah,” Franky confirmed. She didn’t know what Sarah’s agenda was or how she fitted in with Ferguson and until she did, she didn’t want the cops sniffing around. She had too much to lose. She sent a dazzling smile the way of the detective.

They moved back into the living area. “You cook?” The detective asked as she noted the interrupted pastry preparations.

“Yeah,” Franky replied, following her gaze. It seemed a random question. “Do you?”

“Not much,” the older woman acknowledged ruefully. She turned her attention back to the task at hand. “Can you describe the intruder?”

Franky answered a series of questions concerning details of the break in but her answers were vague and unhelpful. “You said this was your girlfriend’s house,” the detective reminded her. “Where is she?”

“On the Gold Coast at a conference,” Franky told her. Jasper put his head in her lap and gave her a longing look. She patted his head absently.

“When is she back?”

“Friday,” Franky smiled. The detective made a note of the date. “Why?”

“Just a routine question,” the detective said dismissively. She stood up and pulled a card from her jacket pocket which she handed to Franky. “Call me if you think of anything that might help or you discover something was taken. Tell your girlfriend to contact me if she needs a report for insurance purposes.” She headed up the hall. “And get that lock fixed,” she instructed as she reached the front door.

Franky glanced at the card then tossed it into the shallow bowl on the kitchen bench which held her keys and a random assortment of other objects collected by Bridget and dumped there for convenience. She went back to her pastry and as she worked the dough her mind processed her new knowledge. If Sarah had been the intruder, and she didn’t steal anything, then what had been her intent? Franky had caught her on the way out, so whatever her mischief had been, it was already done.

She put the pastry in the fridge to rest. Then Franky looked through the house again but this time not for what was missing. She found it on the coffee table. It had been sitting in clear line of sight of the detective. Franky hadn’t noticed it because the remote had blocked it from view. It hadn’t been there yesterday. She was positive. It didn’t even look like the regulation navy blue thumb drives Bridget usually bought. It was silver.

She looked at it. She realised now why nothing had been taken. That hadn’t been the point of the exercise. She already knew what was on it. She wondered if Sarah had left fingerprints. There was only one way to know and she wasn’t prepared to hand it over to Detective McNally to find out.

Her phone rang. It was Bridget. “I’ve heard from Ferguson,” she said as soon as Franky answered.

“And I know why,” Franky responded.

“What do you mean?” Bridget sounded like she was at a party.

“The break in was a delivery,” Franky told her. “They left a USB stick. Wanna guess what’s on it?”

“The recording of our session,” Bridget said immediately.

“I dunno why she didn’t drop it in the letter box though. I mean it was bloody risky.”

“Because she’s making a point,” Bridget said with sudden understanding. “She is telling us we’re not safe, and she can get to us whenever she wants if we don’t sing to her tune.”

Franky filled Bridget in on her theory about Sarah. “She used the bathroom,” Bridget told her, “when she came round. Obviously she wanted to check the layout of the place. Fuck!” Bridget chastised herself. “I should have realised.”

“Why would you?” Franky asked.

“Because I’m a fucking psychologist Franky, and I should be able to read people,” she responded with frustration. “The way she implied you and she were friends totally fooled me.”

Franky laughed. “Don’t beat yourself up, Gidge, it will be okay,” she reassured her. “So what now?”

“I’ll meet with Ferguson when I get back.” There was a lot of laughter in the background. “I have to get going,” she said reluctantly. “There are drinks and then dinner tonight. Stay safe,” she said suddenly.

“Jasper will protect me,” Franky said with mock sincerity. “He can have your side of the bed,” she suggested teasingly.

“Don’t you dare,” Bridget replied immediately, rising to the bait beautifully. “He can sleep in the laundry.”

Franky laughed. “Enjoy your party!” She rang off.

Erica was working late. The rest of the staff had left a few hours ago. The urgent priorities had been dealt with and she was thinking about packing up and going home. The door to the office opened and the Minister appeared.

“I thought you had an engagement tonight,” she said with surprise.

Ben loosened his tie and took off his jacket. “Tedious,” he said, “I skipped out early, told them I had an urgent meeting with my chief advisor.” He smiled at her. “So we better have a chat, so you don’t make a liar out of me.” He propped on the corner of her desk and looked down at her.

Erica studied him. She had spent the day reviewing his earlier words, looking for an angle she could use to her advantage. “How was your meeting with the Premier?”

Ben expelled his breath. “He’s worried about this trial and the damage it could do to the Government.”

“Are you?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “Let’s have a drink,” he stood up and walked to his office.

Erica followed him. He poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to her. “I’m glad you came to work for me,” he said as their glasses touched. “You and I understand each other.” His eyes were dark. “I always thought we’d be good together.” Erica was suddenly wary.

Every now and then Ben hit on her, not seriously, but if she had shown any interest at all then she was sure Ben wouldn’t have hesitated. It had never felt right though, Erica remembered, not even in the early days when they had both been footloose and fancy free. She had felt the silent approval from their parents towards the pairing. She had tried to fit into their expectations of her and for the most part she had managed it but like a stubborn sleeping bag going into a stuff sack, there had always been a slight bit of Erica which refused to fit in. Since her kiss with Franky she had known why.

“We wouldn’t be,” Erica said plainly. Previously she would have smiled to soften the rejection but these days she didn’t bother.

Ben laughed. “Say what you mean, Erica,” he suggested wryly.

They drank in silence. “I remember those summers at the beach house,” she said reflectively. “You used to talk about changing the world.”

Ben’s eyes creased with amusement. “I was full of bullshit and beer,” he said.

“I believed you would change the world,” Erica told him seriously. “I can’t help but look at you and wonder where that young man went.” She thought for a moment that he wouldn’t accept the criticism and would slap her down.

Instead Ben gave a surprised laugh. “Shit!” He exclaimed then looked at her for a moment. “Where did that come from?”

“Now you talk about leaving legacies as though that’s the end game. I used to understand you Ben, but now,” she shook her head. “You’ve been captured by ambition.”

“That is priceless coming from you, Erica,” he told her.

“Prove me wrong then,” she challenged him.

Suddenly he felt he’d been carefully manoeuvred into position like a clueless pawn in a chess game. He laughed with new understanding. “Why do I get the feeling you already know how I might do that?”

“Meet with Louisa Kelly,” she said quickly, “and hear her out.”

“Ah, the Open Pathways project,” he said with enlightenment. He considered her request. “And what if I still can’t see the merit in her proposal?” he asked at last.

“You will,” she said with certainty.

It was past eleven when Franky felt a wet nose against her face. She’d fallen asleep on the couch reading. Jasper looked at her expectantly with his honest soulful eyes. She’d forgotten to walk him. “Shit,” she muttered as she sat up. “Come on,” she gave him a pat as she got up. “We’ll go now,” she told him. She grabbed her jacket and pulled on her boots.

She walked him up to the local park. It was dark and the streets were empty. It had rained earlier and the pavement was wet. Jasper insisted on stopping to sniff then leave his mark on every post, shrub and garbage bin he found. Franky wondered how he managed to stocktake so much pee then release it in dribbles. She’d never had that kind of self-control. She let him off the lead at the park and watched him disappear into the darkness. She hoped she’d be able to get him back again. As she waited for him she soaked up the silence and the stillness. She felt as though she might be the only person awake. Then she heard something that told her she wasn’t alone.

Franky peered into the blackness where she thought the sound had come from. She couldn’t see anything but realised suddenly that she was lit up like a Christmas tree standing under the lamppost as she was. She walked out of its illumination into the safety of darkness. She called the dog to her. Jasper, however, was nowhere to be found. Franky realised she was trapped while she waited for the dog to return. She headed towards the nearby copse of trees where she had heard a stick snap under the weight of a person’s foot. Someone was lurking in those shadows watching her.

When Erica left the Minister’s offices she felt her mission had been accomplished. She had realised at some point that she didn’t need to convince Ben to fund the project. Louisa would do that with her Irish way with words. All she had to do was get her in the room and an agreement from Ben to listen.

It was late, too late to call anyone, except Louisa Kelly had already set a precedent in their relationship. She wanted to share the victory so she rang the CEO.

“What are you doing Friday night?” The Irish woman asked on answering, not seeming at all surprised at the lateness of the call.

“Hello,” Erica replied with a smile in her voice. “Why?”

“I want you to come out to dinner with me,” Louisa told her.

There was a pause. “Are you asking me out?” Erica asked slowly.

“What?” the other woman sounded surprised. “No, I’m asking you to a dinner to meet some people involved in the project.”

Erica silently cursed Franky. She had put the idea of Louisa being a lesbian in Erica’s head and it had skewed her interpretation of the woman’s intent. Now she was left with the awkwardness of her misunderstanding. “Oh,” she paused, “sorry,” she apologised, “I just thought for a moment,” she gave up, it was perfectly clear what she thought, embarrassingly so.

“Don’t worry about it,” Louisa said reassuringly. She laughed to relieve the tension. “So are you free?”

Erica was still feeling like an idiot. “I’ll let you know,” she said with reserve.

“Sure,” Louisa replied, not entirely sure what just happened but knowing something had changed between them. “Why were you calling?” She prompted after a moment’s silence.

“I’ve got you a meeting with the Minister,” Erica told her, feeling relieved to move the conversation on. “No guarantees but he is willing to listen.”

“Well done,” Louisa said immediately.

“I better go,” Erica replied, wanting to end the awkwardness.

“Let me know about Friday,” Louisa said before she rang off.

Franky stood perfectly still. A light breeze rustled the leaves. She waited. She was pretty sure she had vanished into the darkness now she was under the canopy. She heard a noise away to the right of her. She moved quietly in that direction. As she approached the sound she realised there was something moving. It was a black shadow. At the same moment she heard a car start she realised the shadow was Jasper. “Shit!” she muttered with relief.

She pulled out his lead and grabbed his collar. “Let’s get out of here,” She suggested. The dog growled and Franky thought he was growling at her. “It’s me, you dumb mutt,” she chastised him. He growled again and Franky realised he was looking past her, behind her, with his teeth bared and a deep guttural menacing sound coming from him. She spun around and at the same time let go of Jasper’s collar. He took off into the darkness and there was scuffling and growling then the dog yelped in pain and Franky heard running feet. She followed the sound and found him limping towards her. Franky ran her hand down his leg until he pulled away in pain. Someone had given him a good kick.

Franky slowly walked the limping dog home. As she walked up the front path to the house Jasper growled at the shadows. Franky saw a person emerge from the darkness of the porch. She relaxed when she realised who it was.

“What are you doing here?" She asked Erica with surprise.


	9. Brief Encounters

"I tried to call you," Erica said, watching Franky curiously.  She looked wired.  "Are you okay?"

Franky's phone had run out of battery so she had left it on the bench charging.  Even after five years away from it, Franky still missed her technology when she didn't have it with her.  

She felt on edge, as she had in prison when she was losing control.  She had been ready to defend herself just now in the park.  Ferguson was getting into her head again.  Like that time in Wentworth when she had insidiously planted a seed of distrust and betrayal and Franky had wandered around in a paranoid daze as a consequence.  

It was almost midnight.  Erica appearing out from the darkness of the front porch was the last thing Franky had expected.  As she watched her though, it was as if she had always been expecting this moment, from the first moment of Erica's reappearance in her life, as though it was inevitable that she and Erica would continue their dance.  

"You can't be here," she said.  She sounded firm and unyielding, conscious of the empty house, of Bridget's absence, of temptation.  

"How did it go with your dad?"  Erica ignored the finite nature of Franky's comment and opened a new line of conversation, one that Franky had previously started.

Franky shrugged warily.  "He's feeling guilty," she answered.  It was true but also an inadequate description of their meeting.  There was so much yet to be said between them, so much trust to be regained that Franky wondered if the wound could ever be healed.

She saw Erica watching her. The ambient light from the street was subtle and Erica's face was soft in the half light.  Her eyes, penetrating and serious, seemed to be asking another question.  The silence between them lengthened.  

"You're not here to talk about my dad, are you?" Franky said at last.

Erica shook her head slightly.  It had been a strange evening.  When Ben had made his approach it had reinforced to her how disinterested she was in him, in men, in that way.  It had been in part responsible for her faux par with Louisa, that and Franky's conviction that Louisa Kelly was gay.  When she had hung up from the CEO she had been embarrassed.  Then she realised it didn't matter what Louisa Kelly thought, that nothing mattered if she couldn't make Franky see she was serious in her intentions.

She had accepted Franky's words at the cafe as a fait accompli.  It was over.  Done.  As she reflected on it she had realised two things though.  Firstly, she didn't want it to be over and secondly, Franky didn't quit pursuing her at Erica's first rebuff.   

"It's late," Franky said slowly.  

"Too late for a drink?" Erica asked.  "I want to ask you something."

"So ask me," Franky said, ignoring the invitation.  She was curious. Even though she was starting to feel cold, and it was late, she wanted to know what would happen next.  Since their re-acquaintance Erica had continually surprised her.

Erica only heard impatience in Franky's tone.  "After I kissed you the other night," Franky's expression became wary, "I could only think about one thing."  She paused and Franky couldn't pull her eyes away.  They were both reliving that kiss in the silence which joined them.  "That I didn't want it to end, that I wanted it to be the beginning of something."  She said at last then paused but if she had hoped for some reaction she was disappointed.  

Franky's green eyes didn't reveal anything.  "That's not a question," she pointed out.  

As she said it Jasper shifted against her and she glanced down.  The dog looked up at her hopefully with those brown eyes.  Then Erica moved towards her, into her personal space, close enough to touch.  Now there was nothing but good intentions separating them.   Franky was mesmerised by the look on her face, her parted lips and she felt a sudden rush of anticipation.  She felt Erica's hands slide inside her open jacket and rest lightly against her hips.  Her t-shirt was untucked and Erica's fingers only had to slide upwards to be resting against the bare skin of her stomach.  "What are you doing?" She asked even though she knew perfectly well.  Hadn't she seduced countless women in her time?

"Asking my question," Erica said softly, surely.  They were about the same height, Franky was perhaps a little taller but Erica's heels were higher.  Her blue eyes held desire but Franky also saw something else in their depths and she realised Erica was daring her to kiss her.

Erica didn't intend to make Franky do anything she didn't want to do.  That didn't mean though, that she wasn't going to use everything she could to her advantage.  Her hands, warmer now they had been resting against Franky, slid upwards, under her top, and rested on the warm smooth skin.  Despite her fitness and toned muscles, Franky's torso was surprisingly soft.  She felt Franky's muscles flutter with the contact and she delighted in the reaction.  Franky was not immune to her.  She smiled slightly, triumphantly.  Franky saw the smile.

The kiss was intense, passionate, and without reservation.  Franky wanted to show her dominance even as she accepted Erica had manipulated her into this moment.  As they kissed, Franky lost her sense of perspective and time and place.  There was nothing beyond this moment and nothing before it.  Erica's hands slid round her back pulling her closer until she could feel their bodies pressing together, thighs, breasts, lips.   The kiss continued as though two years had never passed and all the sexual tension that had built up between them was suddenly allowed to ignite.  

Bridget's phone was ringing on the bedside table next to her head.  She had left a message for Franky and hadn't muted her phone on the off chance she fell asleep and missed her call.  She felt like she had only been asleep for a minute although the digital clock glowed 12.54am.  The number was not Franky's though but a random one she didn't recognise.  She was in two minds whether to answer when the call dropped out suddenly.  She swore under her breath and collapsed back onto the pillow.  She hated hotel rooms, she decided suddenly, for all the reasons everyone hated them but she hated this one mostly because Franky wasn't there to share it with her.  Instead of trying out the spa and drinking dry the mini bar then falling into the enormous bed together, she had fallen asleep watching mindless television without even bothering to undress or drink the tea she had made from the small selection of teabags on offer.

Her phone began ringing again.  It was the same number.  This time she switched the mobile to silent and ignored it.  After a few minutes she heard it vibrate once to indicate a text message, which she ignored but another message arrived shortly afterwards.  She picked up her phone curiously.  The message was short.  "The time is short, Miss Westfall."  It was unsigned.  Bridget could hear the tone behind the words, that of impatience, of exasperation.

The words could mean anything but to Bridget they only meant one thing. She wondered how Ferguson had managed to get hold of a mobile phone then she laughed at her own naivety.  Ferguson, a master of manipulation, would have no trouble persuading someone to smuggle a phone to her. She pictured her, waiting until the night staff were gathered in the kitchen for their nightly coffee catch up, sitting in the dark in her room, watching the phone in front of her, waiting.

Maybe it had been fortuitous she had been away all week.  Ferguson had summoned her through official channels and received no response.  That she was calling her now showed her desperation.  It put the psychologist in the position of power.  Bridget had thought about how their conversation might play out.  She had tried to anticipate Ferguson's next move.  She felt quietly confident.  Ferguson would under estimate her and that would be her downfall. 

She called the number and waited.  It rang once.  "I'm beginning to think you are not taking this seriously, Miss Westfall," she said on answering.  

Her voice sounded different over the phone.  It took Bridget a moment to connect it with the tall, commanding presence of Joan Ferguson.  

"Oh, I take you very seriously," she said in response.

"I expected to see you today," the ex-governor sounded miffed to Bridget's ears.

She didn't want Ferguson to know she was out of town.  "I was busy."  She said it dismissively, goading Ferguson to lose her cool.   

She didn't rise to the bait though and instead got down to business.  "I believe I have fulfilled my side of the bargain," the older woman said coolly.  

"There was no bargain," Bridget refuted firmly, "and that USB stick proves nothing. There could be hundreds of copies. How do I know you haven't emailed it to someone or any number of other scenarios?"

"Well of course you don't," Ferguson acknowledged.  She paused, "but as the police have taken possession of my laptop and other devices, you can be sure they would have found it if what you suggest is true."  It was exactly the response she had expected.

"You must realise that any testimony I gave on your behalf would be quickly refuted," Bridget pointed out.  "You fired me, and the prosecution will use that fact to their advantage."  Psychologist one, she thought, psychopath zero.  

"You resigned Miss Westfall, as I recall," and there was satisfaction and condescension in the tone.  The game rebalanced.

"Further to that," Bridget ignored the interruption, "there are my notes on Jodie Spiteri, which would completely contradict my testimony.  The prosecution will already have those in their possession."  There was silence. 

"That is simply untrue."  Ferguson dismissed her claim.

"They will tear me apart on the witness stand and your defence will suffer the consequences." Bridget drove home her point. She waited.

"You are playing a dangerous game," Joan Ferguson said at last.

"You mean Franky Doyle?"  Bridget asked in a surprised tone.  "But you've just said you have no further copies of the tape so where could the danger possibly lie?"

They both knew Ferguson was lying about the tape but neither was willing to admit it. They had reached a stalemate.  Ferguson hadn't known about the notes the psychologist had made in the Spiteri file.  It meant she had been wasting her time getting Bridget Westfall on side when she should have been trying to discredit her.  

A good general plans and strategizes to ensure victory in the field of battle but a great general has the foresight and flexibility to change plans when necessary in the midst of battle.  Her father had used the analogy many times when teaching her the art of fencing.  It was time to change her strategy.

"I see," she conceded with a tight smile in her voice. "Good bye, Miss Westfall."

Bridget put the phone down.  She should have been feeling triumphant.  She had outplayed Ferguson.  There was no doubt she had blindsided her with the Spiteri reference.  And yet, the psychologist thought the older woman had capitulated too easily.  She spent a restless night trying to second guess Ferguson's reaction.  

By morning she had decided to skip the last day of the conference and return to Melbourne on the earliest direct flight of the day.  It was time to go home.  She missed Franky.  She would surprise her. She wasn't expected at the prison or the clinic that day.  Maybe she and Franky could spend it together.  She wished now she had made the dinner plans with Lou for Saturday night instead of Friday.  She thought about calling her.  

Erica was in a sauna. The warm moist air enveloped her and clung to her skin. She peered through its vaporous form at the naked female bodies. She let her towel slip from around her and felt liberated. Her skin glistened with sweat. Her hair was up but damp wisps caught her neck. She looked for tattoos, distinctive, memorable tattoos, and she found them in a secluded corner, stretched out along the wooden slates, on display, on offer. She found the green eyes were watching her and there was curiosity and appreciation in their depths. It was a familiar expression. She had seen it many times and it sparked a familiar yearning within her.

She wanted to kiss those lips again. She wanted Franky to force her into submission as she had with their first kiss. She wondered if Franky had always known she wanted to be dominated before Erica even knew it herself.

Franky's hair was wet and she slicked it back away from her face. Her breasts moved with the action and Erica admired their fullness. "I've been waiting for you," Franky told her and Erica wondered why she had waited so long.

Their kiss was slow, sensual, and seductive but as they kissed Franky's hands took hold of her wrists and her fingers dug into Erica's sensitive skin. She delighted in the sharp sensation that contrasted with the softness of those lips. She struggled against Franky's strength. Their skin sparked on contact. The heat of the sauna, the sweat that lubricated their bodies, the exhibitionist nature of their encounter, left Erica breathless and bold. She slid her hips upwards signalling to Franky what she wanted. Franky fingers freed the last of her inhibitions until she no longer cared that her breath came in gasps. She was caught between pleasure and pain and she couldn’t bear it and yet couldn’t resist pleading for more. Then the pleasure came in pulsing waves and she was lost to it.

Erica woke alone. She resisted the pull of reality, revelling instead in the fantasy. Franky was back in her life and back in her dreams and just as untouchable and tempting as she had been two years ago. She knew the dream had been triggered by what had happened between them.

_"Don't stop," she had murmured as she felt Franky's lips leave her mouth then she gasped as she felt those lips against her throat. She could no longer think clearly, the physical sensations were overwhelming.  Her body's response was immediate and her legs seemed incapable of holding her up.  As she swayed she felt Franky's arms go around her waist supporting her.  Franky manoeuvred them into the dark seclusion of the front porch.  Erica felt the brick wall against her back then Franky's hands between them pulling on her top until she was able to slide her hands upwards.  Erica's nipples were so erect that even though her bra deadened the sensation she still gasped as she felt Franky's thumbs brush roughly over them.  It shot a jolt of heat towards her centre.  She pulled Franky's hips towards her indicating without words her consent, her desire to take things as far as Franky wanted to go._

Her mobile vibrated on her bedside table and she looked at it hopefully. It was Louisa Kelly.  She answered it anyway.

"So you never got back to me about tonight," the Irish woman came to the point immediately as Erica was beginning to expect from her.

"Do you ever sleep?" Erica asked and Louisa Kelly chuckled.

"So how about it?"  She sensed the other woman's hesitation.  "Come on, are you telling me you’ve had a better offer?" she teased with a smile in her voice.  

Erica smiled reluctantly.  The better offer had gone begging two years ago."What time?" She asked.  

"I'll pick you up at 6.30," Louisa told her and Erica could hear the enthusiasm in the other woman's voice. “At your work?” she asked.

Erica thought about her day. She had a full schedule and hadn’t yet reviewed the speech written by the Department.  It had been prepared for the Minister's launch of a new IT system that was being introduced in corrections facilities across the State.  It was the first step in a revolutionary initiative whereby all maximum security prisoners would be computer chipped.  It had been a controversial move, hotly debated in parliament where privacy advocates felt it was a step too far.  The Minister had managed to get it passed by removing the requirement for paedophiles to remain chipped after their release.  The speech would be the Minister's opportunity to address some of those concerns raised.  This policy, which the Minister had been passionate about, was one that left a sour taste in her mouth.  There was no respect and no dignity to be had in its implementation.  She had argued against it and lost.  It had been the first moment when she had questioned her ability to influence Ben.  The Department's scripting was usually detailed and factual and lacking inspiration.  She would have to re-write it.

"Yes,” she confirmed then added, “Should I bring something? Wine?" 

"Not necessary, I've bought a few bottles already," Louisa said with a laugh.

After the call Erica did not get up immediately. She closed her eyes again and thought about Franky.

_For a moment Erica thought Franky wanted just what she wanted. There was fire in her touch and a certainty in her response which Erica relished.  Franky groaned as Erica's thigh slid between her legs. "What are you doing to me?" She muttered incoherently against Erica's mouth._

_For Franky desire had collided with adrenalin creating an intense response within her.  The control she yearned for slipped even further away as her mind did battle with her surrendering body.  Erica was just too damn sexy to resist.  She always had been.  She felt herself being pulled under by temptation, and the overwhelming pleasure it offered, until she was sinking into its depths. Soon there would be no going back._

_"Stop!" Franky said suddenly and pulled away, like a drowning person at the moment of surrender.   "I don't want this."  She freed herself from the embrace and stepped away watching Erica warily, distrustful, not of the woman in front of her, but of herself._

_"Franky," Erica began but Franky just shook her head.   Erica sighed. "I don't think you know what you want right now," she said eventually.  She said it not with judgement but with weary resignation._

_"It's late, you should go."  Franky’s green eyes were uncompromising._

So Erica had left. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Despite the chemistry between them, which surely not even Franky could deny, she had chosen Bridget. It frustrated Erica that the concerns she had about that relationship seemed to be lost on Franky. She sighed. Suddenly she felt very alone.

Franky was at her favourite fruit and vegetable shop, standing in line, lost in thought when she saw her.  "What the fuck," she muttered. Sarah had passed by the shop entrance.  Franky kicked her basket forward with her foot as the line shuffled forward.  Then suddenly she left her place and went to the doorway of the shop.  She peered past the people on the pavement until she caught sight of her brown head almost halfway down the block.  "Hey!" She called out.  

People looked at her.  Sarah did not turn round. Franky watched as she quickly ducked across the busy street seemingly without any regard for her safety. Franky was in a bad mood that day. She wanted to pick a fight with someone and Ferguson's pet seemed like a good place to start.

She took her own risky path through the traffic. Sarah was a way ahead of her but had slowed down to a steady pace.  Franky caught up with her easily.  She grabbed hold of her shoulder firmly and spun her round to face her.  Sarah squealed.  "Remember me?" Franky asked grimly.

Sarah's face registered recognition.  "Oh! Hi," she said with enthusiasm. "You scared me," she chastised her. "I was hoping to see you again." The face was smiling again.

"Listen you little bitch," Franky wasn't in the mood for her games.  "I know what you're up to, you and Ferguson, and I'm warning you, keep the fuck away from Bridget and me or I'll mess you up so bad you won't be able to wipe your own arse, got it?"

The surprise on Sarah's face looked genuine.  "What are you talking about?"

"Swiping my card at the gym to get my address?"  Franky raised her eyebrows knowingly, "how did you manage it?"  Franky stared at her then answered her own question.  "Asked at the front desk whether they had your new address, I bet, gave them the card and asked them what they had listed."  It's what Franky would have done.  "Then convincing Bridget we were friends so she'd be nice to you and let you into the house." Franky shook her head. “So you could do Ferguson’s dirty work for her.”

"You left your card on the table, Franky," Sarah said with a worried frown.  

"Then why didn't you hand it in at the front desk if it was that innocent?"  Franky didn't believe a word of it.  

"I was hoping to see you again, I admit it, so I got your address and decided to drop the card in to you.  I met your girlfriend, she seems nice," Sarah conceded with a small smile, "although quite old."

Franky couldn't believe how innocent she sounded.  "Spare me," she muttered.  "Was it you in the park last night too?" She asked suddenly.  "It fucking was, wasn't it?"

"You're a little paranoid, Franky," Sarah suggested with a small laugh.  "It sounds like you think I'm stalking you."  Her smile was full of pity.  "I mean seriously," she took a step backwards, "you should see a therapist."   She took another step backwards so her heels were on the edge of the curb.  One more step and she'd be in the traffic.  She didn't seem to be aware of her peril.  "We all need a little help once in a while."  She smiled as she stepped back and at the same time Franky tried to grab her.  

The car was a silver Mazda 3.  The driver slammed on her brakes.  She almost stopped in time.  Franky saw it happen in slow motion, the impact and Sarah's body bouncing against the bonnet of the car and falling onto the wet road.  Then chaos behind as cars scrambled to avoid rear ending the Mazda, people jostling Franky as they rushed to the girl's aid, and she saw the driver's shocked face as she gripped the wheel in disbelief.

"What happened?" People were asking her.  She shook her head.  She didn't know.  It was surreal.  One moment she had been talking to her and the next Sarah was lying unconscious, possibly even dead.  "Do you know her?"  They asked.  "You were talking to her," one man said.

Franky ignored them.  Suddenly she wanted to get away, to distance herself from the scene, from Sarah.  "Are you all right, sweetie?"  An elderly lady peered at her with concern.

She turned away to escape the crowd which had gathered.  "Hey!"  Someone called out, "the police will want to speak to witnesses."  

She kept walking.


	10. The Higher Ground

"This is Erica," Louisa stepped aside to reveal the stylish slim blonde.   
   
Erica had had a few minutes to prepare herself for this moment unlike Bridget.  Between the car and the front door, Erica had thought of and discarded a plethora of excuses to leave.  In the end she had decided the opportunity was too good to pass up.  She wanted to see Franky interact with Bridget so she could assess for herself the nature of their relationship.  The night might be awkward; it might play out in stilted politeness; it could even get ugly but Erica wasn’t going to apologise for being there.   
   
"Hello again," Erica smiled, "what a strange coincidence."  
   
Bridget looked with surprise at Erica Davidson's polite smile. She turned a questioning look on her friend who in turn was looking at Erica curiously.  Fortunately Louisa leapt in, as was her way, sparing Bridget from having to reply immediately.  "You know each other?" She asked incredulously then she laughed.  "Priceless!"  
   
"Not exactly," Erica refuted.  She eyed the psychologist, "but we've played in the same patch."  
   
Louisa nodded, suddenly enlightened.  "Of course, Wentworth," she said, remembering the research she had done into Erica’s career after their first fiery encounter.    
   
Bridget, however, took the words to mean something else entirely.  "Our agendas were quite different though," she said with a frown.  "Wouldn't you say?"  She added with a pointed look.  
   
"Not so different," Erica replied smoothly.   
   
"I think we all come at things slightly differently but our goal is ultimately the same."  Louisa put in her two cents worth.  "It's why I was keen for you two to meet."  She gave each woman an embracing smile, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent.    
   
"Come in," Bridget said because the alternative, although preferred, was not possible no matter how she felt about inviting her competition into her home and being forced to welcome her.  "You know the way."  She stood aside to allow both women to pass down the hallway ahead of her.    
   
She wondered how Franky would handle Erica’s unexpected appearance.  Her demeanour that afternoon had been distracted.  When Bridget had told her about Ferguson's capitulation she had accepted it with an absent nod of her head.  She had dismissed Bridget's concerns with a hug and a quick kiss.  "You beat her Gidge," Franky had said, "at her own game.  I always knew you would."    
   
Franky had told her briefly about her encounter with Sarah.  It had explained why Franky did not seem her usual self.  Her brain couldn't comprehend how it had happened.  It shouldn't have happened, she had said.  "Sarah must have known she was on the curb, that the traffic was heavy, that it would be suicide to step back."  It was clear Franky regretted her involvement.  "I should have just let her walk by.  I should have stayed in the fucking queue."  Then she'd taken a deep breath and rubbed her eyes with her hand.  It had been a gesture half weary, half rueful.  She'd seemed happier once she began cooking and had refused to let Bridget help with the vegetable preparation.  It hadn't exactly been the homecoming Bridget had hoped for.    
   
Bridget made the introductions.  She noticed an exchange of looks between Erica and Franky.  The latter was clearly surprised but beyond that Bridget couldn't determine.  Franky quickly adopted a neutral expression.

Franky looked at Erica's slight smile and wondered just how much worse her day was going to get. Bridget and Erica being in such close proximity made her uncomfortable. Erica could have warned Franky the previous evening except she had clearly had other things on her mind. Franky remembered how close she'd come to giving in to that moment. Erica had orchestrated it, Franky was fairly certain, with one outcome in mind.

Louisa was looking intently at Franky.  "Haven't we met somewhere?" She asked with a disarming smile.    
   
Franky shrugged, pulling her mind back to the present with difficulty. She remembered the dark haired woman as Erica's cafe date.  "I'm pretty sure you'd never forget it if we had," she told her with a cocky grin but not expanding further. There was some awkward laughter. "Anyone fancy a drink?"   
   
"Yes!" came three immediate responses.   
   
Louisa passed Franky the wine bottles she'd been carrying who poured four glasses.  They raised their drinks together in a moment of harmony.  Franky's eyes sought out Erica as they drank, her green eyes questioning.  Erica just sipped her wine as though oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation.   
   
Louisa glanced at Bridget.  "So where did you two meet?" She asked, waving her wine glass in Franky's direction.  
   
Bridget had been expecting this question from her friend and she and Franky had talked about how they would answer it.  "Wentworth," she said briefly.  It was the truth but not the whole truth.  
   
"You work there too?"  Louisa asked Franky.    
   
"I was there, past tense," Franky said, deliberately not correcting Louisa’s assumption then she grinned.  "Pay was lousy though."  Louisa smiled appreciating the humour.  
   
"Franky is studying," Bridget clarified.    
   
"And working at legal aid," Franky added with a quick glance at Erica.  She was grateful for the job opportunity and she didn’t want Erica to think otherwise.  
   
"I always thought you two met in a professional capacity," Erica spoke for the first time.  "You weren't her therapist then?" She asked, directing her attention to Bridget, her expression one of polite interest.     
   
Franky looked warily at Erica.  It was a direct challenge.  Suddenly she was worried how this evening might end.  Erica, it seemed, wasn't intending to play nice.  It was clear from that comment that she had something to say.  If Louisa Kelly hadn't been there to keep things polite, Franky guessed there would be showdown.  Things had gotten messy.  The situation suddenly reminded her of Kim's outbursts.  Erica was not Kim though.  Erica was way smarter.  
   
"Where did you hear that?" Bridget asked after a moment’s hesitation.  Somehow Erica Davidson had joined some dots since their last meeting.  Her tone was curious rather than cautious and no one in the room could guess at the internal angst she was feeling.  
   
"Nowhere," Erica admitted casually, taking a sip of wine.   
   
Franky put down her wine glass.  "Let's eat,” she suggested and headed into the kitchen.   
   
Bridget proposed they all relocate to the table as dinner was almost ready.  She had a dining table which sat six in another room.  She and Franky never used it preferring to eat casually on stools at the island bench or on the couch.    In fact Franky often ate standing up, bowl in hand, leaning against the kitchen sink.  When Louisa had let her know she was bringing a friend, Bridget had decided on a more formal dinner setting.  Louisa happily grabbed the wine bottle and followed her, asking Bridget about her conference.  Erica, however, ignored Bridget’s attempt to corral them and followed Franky into the kitchen instead.  
   
“Can I help?” She asked.  Not that she could cook and not that she expected Franky to need any but as an excuse for being there it served its purpose.  
   
Franky was inspecting the vegetarian lasagne she had pulled out of the oven.  Erica had a sudden desire to slip her hands around Franky’s waist and kiss the back of her neck or slip her hands under the loose folds of her top and caress the silky soft skin.  She thought about them stealing an intimate moment.  It was tempting, she had to admit, and she wondered how Franky would respond.   
   
Franky turned before she had a chance to act on her thoughts.  “What the hell are you doing here?” She asked in a low tone.  
   
“I was invited,” Erica felt the need to defend herself.  “By Louisa obviously,” she conceded.   
   
“You could have mentioned it,” Franky muttered.  
   
“Well, how could I?  I didn’t even know until we pulled up outside,” Erica explained with exasperation.  
   
Franky raised her eyebrows sceptically but couldn’t refute the claim.  She shifted her focus.  “And what the fuck was that just now?”  Her green eyes blazed with accusation and anger.   
   
Erica stopped short in the face of the verbal attack.  “When?”   She asked with surprise.  
   
Franky expelled her breath with impatience.  “Just fucking now, Erica, with that therapist comment!”  
   
“I was making conversation,” Erica said calmly.   
   
Franky shook her head.  “Nah,” she contradicted her, “you were being deliberately provocative.”  Erica was silent.  No one likes to have their words flung back at them especially when they held a ring of truth.  “Is this about last night?”  Franky asked, glancing towards the hallway.  “Because if you’ve got something to say to me then say it but leave Bridget out of this.”   
   
“Fine,” Erica reacted to Franky’s tone.  “Here’s what I want to say to you,” she said with impatience.  “This woman you are with was your therapist at Wentworth.”  The words fell like coins on a tiled floor.  “How can you possibly know whether or not what you feel for her isn’t just a manifestation of that?”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Franky told her dismissively.

“Franky, you have gone straight from prison into a serious relationship with her, no break, no time for you to assess what you want, no time to get any perspective.”  She sighed.  She could see her words weren’t welcome.  “Does that sound healthy to you?”  She asked with a frown. Franky turned back to the lasagne and put it back into the oven.   “because it doesn’t to me.” 

Franky started to prepare a salad. Erica's words repeated in her head. Each time she rejected them they appeared again and again like annoying spam in her email.

Erica watched her slicing cucumber with precision and considered her next words.  “I’m not judging you, I’m worried about you,” she said eventually.  "It’s your choice who you love.” She conceded.

“Yeah it is,” Franky said firmly.  “So shut up and help me with the salad.”  Erica laughed unexpectedly easing the tension between them. "And stop kissing me,” Franky added, “it’s distracting.”

“You kissed me actually,” Erica murmured as she selected an avocado to dice.  “Knife?”

“Right,” Franky muttered without conviction.  She opened a drawer and produced a small paring knife. 

“Anyway, I can’t promise that,” Erica added as she commenced her dissection.

Franky, however, was distracted by Erica’s unconventional approach to avocado slicing.  She watched fascinated.  “Have you ever peeled an avocado before?”  She asked curiously.

“No,” Erica told her.  “Am I doing it wrong?”  She looked up to see Franky’s eyes alight with amusement.  “Okay, show me, you’re the expert.”  She challenged.

Franky’s warm hands slid over Erica’s as she took the knife and avocado from her.  Erica’s skin tingled.  She watched the long slim fingers dexterously manipulate the fruit and thought of other things.  Her heartbeat quickened and she felt flushed.

“Got it?” Franky looked up and she was suddenly very aware of Erica's closeness, her perfume, her femininity.  Her eyes were drawn to those lips which had evoked such a powerful response from her last night.  The kitchen felt uncomfortably warm and her mouth desert dry. She had forgotten what she'd been going to say.

Erica could feel herself leaning in to Franky as though drawn in by her magnetism.  She wondered if Franky could feel it too, this overwhelming desire that had only been heightened by their interlude on the front porch. She couldn't resist it even if she wanted to, and she didn't want to.  She knew there is only a heartbeat separating thought from action, desire from fulfilment, courage from consequence.  Anticipation flooded her senses.

“Everything okay?” Bridget asked from the doorway.  She had been talking with Louisa but distractedly.  Her mind had been in the kitchen speculating on the conversation and its outcome.  In the end she’d made an excuse about needing to tell Franky not to forget the bread she’d brought from the bakery on the way home from the airport. 

Franky and Erica looked at her.  “Sure,” Franky told her and gave her a quick relieved smile.

The food was good.  Franky’s lemon-lime tart was a huge hit.  The tang of the citrus combined beautifully with the sweetness of the pastry.  It didn’t need anything to enhance it and the creamy filling had a velvety richness to it that all the women appreciated. 

Over dinner Erica had a chance to gauge the calibre of her competition.  Bridget Westfall was intelligent and there was a maturity to her comments, Erica thought as she watched her through critical eyes.  Much as she wanted to, Erica couldn’t find fault with her interactions with Franky, she treated her with respect and it was clear she cared for her a great deal.  Franky was harder to read.  She watched the young woman smile at something Louisa had said and make her own quick witted reply.  The alcohol was having its effect and Louisa seemed to get more animated as the evening progressed.  Franky played off her beautifully.  She looked more relaxed than earlier.

Erica heard her name.  She dragged her attention back to the discussion.  Louisa was talking about the Open Pathways project.  “Erica’s keen to help,” Louisa was telling Bridget, “not just with sourcing funding for the build but with the implementation and delivery.  With her contacts and background, she’ll be an asset, don’t you think?”  Louisa smiled at Erica. 

“If she’s prepared to hang around for the long haul,” Bridget said.  The psychologist gave her a considered look. “It’s not helpful to start something then bail when you’ve had enough,” she said.  “It causes set-backs.”

Erica felt the sting in her words although she wasn’t sure why they had been directed at her.  “That isn’t my intention,” she said with a frown.

Franky showed an interest in the work Louisa Kelly was doing at the Open Pathways Foundation.  “Why do you help these women?” She asked curiously.  It still surprised her that there were people like Louisa so committed to such a thankless, difficult task.

The young CEO explained how her father had committed suicide when she was ten and her mother, who had suffered from depression and anxiety, had struggled to look after her only daughter.  She talked about her childhood. There was no one to feed her, no one to wash her clothes, no one to make sure she washed herself, no one to nurture her. She was bullied at school because she was vulnerable. She was ostracised because she was different. To Franky it was an all too familiar story.  “When I was fifteen I came out to Australia to live with my grandparents and my home life became stable.  I was lucky,” she admitted.  “If I’d stayed in Ireland, I would have ended up living on the streets, prostituting myself to survive, like hundreds of other kids, because the choices for kids like me are limited in Ireland, you know.”  Franky nodded, she could guess.  “I thought if I could save just one kid from having to make that choice then I would.”  Louisa’s lyrical voice hypnotised her audience.  No one could doubt her sincerity or the passion she had for her vocation.

Franky was thoughtful as she watched Louisa poured more wine for everyone.  “Have you seen your mum since you left Ireland?” She asked.

“Once,” Louisa replied, “I went back to Dublin when I was in my late twenties.  I wanted to find Ma and reconcile with her.”

“What happened?” Franky slid forward in her chair and rested her elbows on the table.  She was thinking about her dad.

“I found her eventually, in a hospital in Dublin. She’d had a stroke.  It turned out the man she was living with was violent and bashed her on a regular basis.  The doctors told me that one night he stomped on her neck so hard it caused the dissection of her carotid artery, which led to blood clotting and then a stroke.  When I saw her she was in a coma and she died three days later.  I never got to speak to her.”  Louisa looked at Franky.  “Sometimes it’s not enough to want something.”

Franky thought about her father.  She’d had an opportunity to reconcile with him two years ago.  She wondered how she would have felt if she had never found him again, never had the chance to forgive him.  She wondered if Louisa Kelly carried any guilt with the regret she clearly held.

Erica could see why Louisa Kelly was so driven to succeed, why she did succeed. Her own mother had been a victim of an abusive relationship. It was personal, this crusade she was fighting.

“What happened with the data chipping legislation?” Bridget asked Erica.  “Wasn’t the Bill put before parliament this week?” 

“Yes,” Erica confirmed briefly.  She knew the legislation wouldn’t get much support from the company that night.  She couldn’t help feeling that the psychologist had brought it up deliberately. 

“And it passed,” Louisa told Bridget in a tone that indicated her disgust.  “There is more outrage from the community over data chipping wild animals than there is over people.”

“Well, a baby seal is more photogenic than Juicy Lucy or Boomer,” Franky pointed out drily.  Louisa didn’t understand the references but she understood the sentiment.  She nodded in agreement.

“It is a fundamental attack on these people’s human rights,” Bridget said plainly and directed her gaze to Erica.  “I suppose you support it.”

Franky looked at Bridget. The comment was deliberately confrontational. She slid a bit lower in her chair and crossed her arms. The feeling of dread she'd had earlier returned. Bridget was lining Erica up in her sights.

“Well the Government is in favour of it for a number of very good reasons.  The cost to the taxpayer associated with prison breakouts alone, not to mention the advantages of tracking prisoners during any kind of riot.  How many prisoners have disabled cameras and worn something to hide their identity and managed to get away with it?  Riots and break outs will be resolved much more quickly with less cost to the community,” Erica argued the Government’s position even though she knew it would fall on deaf ears.

“The problem with the economic argument is it ignores the fact that there are privacy and human rights arguments which are equally compelling,” Louisa pointed out.  “I recognise this government wants to roll back those seemingly ‘soft measures’ that were introduced by the labour government but this is a step beyond that. The Government never raised it as part of their policy platform in the election so I cannot see that your Minister has a mandate to go down this path.”

Erica felt the criticism keenly. It was a point she had raised with Ben. Instead of agreeing though, she continued to defend the Government's position.

“We polled the community and ran focus groups,” Erica told her, “and to be honest there weren’t many of them who opposed it.  You might have concerns as educated professionals but the average Joe couldn’t care less about a prisoner’s rights.  Half of them thought the Government wasn’t going far enough and lobbied for a return of the death penalty in Victoria for convicted paedophiles, rapists and murderers.”

“Sometimes governments have a responsibility to lead the community, even if it is kicking and screaming, to where we need to be as a society.  This policy is the antithesis of that ideal.”  Louisa told her.  “You can’t possibly support it, Erica.”

Franky intervened.  “Of course she doesn’t,” she said firmly, “this kind of bullshit is just something she has to deal with, like at Wentworth when she had to tell Bea Smith she couldn’t go to her daughter’s funeral.  We all knew that was down to Channing.”  Franky heard the surprise in the silence which followed her words.  “Right Erica?”

Erica looked at her helplessly.  Even privately she wasn’t prepared to make a statement contrary to the government’s public stance.  In this era of smartphones nothing was private and confidential anymore, everything had the potential to become a public statement.  Franky was watching her and her eyes told Erica what she was thinking, that if she hadn’t got her parole then she would be one of those prisoners branded like an animal. 

They were all watching her.  Louisa Kelly was frowning slightly as though all she thought she knew of Erica Davidson’s character was about to be contradicted and she would be disappointed.  Bridget Westfall was coolly assessing and Erica could almost hear her thoughts.  She knew, and must have known all along, that Erica would not give into the pressure around the table.  Maybe she had even known the topic would bring Erica into direct conflict with Franky. 

She attempted to deflect the discussion away from her own views. "So you agree these prisoners are vulnerable and should be protected?” She asked eventually, directing her question to Bridget.

“This policy is an infringement of their rights,” Bridget told her.  “Whether they are vulnerable or not is irrelevant.”

“Not if you are in a position of power or influence over them and you abuse that,” Erica said pointedly. 

Bridget saw how quickly and easily the other woman had manipulated the conversation and turned a defensive position into one of attack.  “That’s not what we’re talking about here,” Bridget told her.  It was a warning.

“Maybe it should be,” Erica countered, refusing to back down.

Franky's worst fears were about to be realised. "I could murder a coffee,” she said into the expectant silence which followed Erica's words. "Gidget?" She prompted.

"Good idea," was all Bridget said, but her eyes were fixed on Erica as though lining up a target.

"I'll help," Louisa offered, suddenly sensitive to the tension surrounding her. She began clearing the plates.

Bridget had thought earlier that Erica Davidson had an agenda that evening and now she realised she had been correct in that assessment. It was time to clear the air. She waited until Franky and Louisa had left the room.

“You think you know something,” Bridget said quietly, “but you don’t know the first thing about Franky and me.”

Erica didn't waste the opportunity to speak her mind now the psychologist had opened the door to the discussion. "I know you treated Franky at Wentworth,” she replied, crossing her legs and straightening her skirt, “and I know you and she are involved in a sexual relationship.”  She looked up to see the reaction to her next words.  “And I know that to be a breach of ethics, and of trust.”  It was a professional slap in the face.

Bridget just smiled.  “Franky is not some unstable individual who could be influenced as you’re suggesting.  If you understood her at all you would know that,” she couldn’t help adding.

“Franky is very good at charming you, I know,” Erica acknowledged, “and she’s hard to resist but you had a responsibility to her.  She was a prisoner in your care.”

“Nothing happened between Franky and me,” Bridget insisted, “until after she got her parole.  Our sessions were over and she was free to make choices about what she wanted.  And perfectly capable of making them too,” Bridget said with exasperation.  “If you want to talk about responsibility,” Bridget decided to take the offensive, “what about your responsibility to Franky?”

“I didn’t take advantage of her,” Erica retorted immediately.

“No?” Bridget raised her eyebrows.  “You meant a lot to her, and yet you left her in that prison for two years without a word.  You could have helped her, particularly in your current position, and yet you chose not to, so your concern for her now seems a trifle insincere." Bridget said what she had wanted to say ever since Erica Davidson had appeared in her life.

"You wouldn't be quite so critical if you knew the circumstances," Erica replied. For the first time Erica sounded defensive.

Bridget smiled.  "She kissed you, and you didn't like it, so what?"  

"Is that what she told you?" Erica asked, and she suddenly wondered how much Franky had said to the psychologist about her, about their relationship, about how she felt.  Bridget Westfall would interpret everything through a clinical psychotherapy lens and Erica didn't feel at all comfortable with the idea.  
   
"She told me what you said to her," Bridget replied.  She studied Erica, assessing her.  "It is interesting how you chose to describe that kiss," she said at last.  "Assault is a powerful word, full of implications both legal as well as emotional."  Erica started to say something but Bridget hadn't finished.  "You'd know that though, having studied law, and yet you deliberately used it.  I mean attempted rape is assault, being physically abused by prison guards is assault, having your hands held in a steam iron is assault, being burnt by cigarettes is assault, if you think about it."    
   
Erica felt the impact of the word each time Bridget Westfall used it to punctuate her point.  At first she thought the examples were random but the last two made her reassess that.  She wondered suddenly about Franky's time in prison and what had happened to her.  Her use of the word, thrown down to make Franky understand how unacceptable her actions were to Erica, was suddenly put into perspective.  To compare what Franky had done to the abuse she had suffered as a child and while in prison was offensive.  She wasn't going to defend or explain herself to Bridget Westfall, however, if she was in the wrong then her apology would be to Franky.  
   
"You talk about Franky's vulnerability," Bridget continued, "and yet as far as I can see you have done nothing to help her."  
   
"That's unfair," Erica protested but she felt her ground was crumbling beneath her.  "I tutored her and I encouraged her.  I saw her potential from the very beginning and I helped her to channel that.  Yes I left," she admitted, "when circumstances forced me to leave.  You seem to think I could have helped Franky somehow in my current role but that simply isn't the case."  
   
"Did you try?" Bridget asked, raising her eyebrows sceptically. "You never wrote to her, never visited her, you left her there. You just walked away." Bridget said to Erica what she couldn't say to Franky, not now anyway. Maybe once, as her therapist she could have said these things but as her girlfriend she never could. Not without sounding like she had an agenda to push or the jealous girlfriend.  
   
Erica gave a cynical shake of her head and looked away.  This woman was going to crucify her regardless.  "What's the point of this?"  She asked suddenly, looking up to meet the judgement in those eyes.  
   
Bridget didn't answer.  She couldn't say what was in her heart to this woman, didn't want to share it with her.  It was precious, it was pure, it belonged to Franky and her.  Suddenly she felt weary and wished for nothing more than to close her eyes and feel Franky's arms around her holding her, her warmth and strength radiating through her.  Erica Davidson was right about one thing, there was little point in trying to take the higher moral ground.  The journey Franky had taken had led her to Bridget and she couldn't regret it.  
   
She heard Louisa laughing in the kitchen and Franky's voice.  She wondered what they were talking about.  
   
Erica broke the silence. "How can you be so sure Franky isn't confusing her feelings for you with the obligation she might feel towards you?" She asked quietly.  
   
At that moment Franky and Louisa arrived carrying mugs, coffee and another bottle.  The conversation was over.  Bridget felt Franky's hand on her thigh as she sat down next to her.  "Everything okay here?" She asked quietly, with concern, as though she knew the essence of the discussion already.  
   
The doorbell rang before Bridget could respond.  She went to answer it as Louisa opened the third bottle of wine and encouraged Franky and Erica, who weren't driving, to indulge.  "I remember where I saw you," she said to Franky as she poured wine into her glass, her unusual eyes were twinkling.  "It was with Erica."  Franky held up her hands in surrender and grinned.  "I didn't realise Melbourne was such a small town," Louisa smiled in return.  
   
Franky didn't answer, she was watching as Bridget entered the room followed by the detective who had investigated the break in.  "This is Detective McNally," Bridget informed them.  Franky nodded at her in recognition, wondering if they had managed to connect Sarah with the break in.  "She wants to talk to you about Sarah Carson."  Bridget told her as if on cue.  
   
"Yeah?" Franky said noncommittedly.  "Who's she then?"  
   
The detective spoke.  "She was involved in traffic accident this afternoon.  She was hit by a car on Glenferrie Road.  Know anything about that?"   
   
Franky shrugged.  "Why would I?"  She crossed her arms against her chest.  She began to have a very bad feeling.   
   
"She claims you pushed her," the detective answered.  
   
Franky's face remained neutral.  Her mind was assessing the impact of those words. Worse than dead then, she thought, Sarah was alive and still causing trouble.  "That's bullshit," she said.    
   
The detective looked unmoved.  "I need you to come down to the station and answer a few questions."    
   
Franky shook her head in disbelief.  "This is bullshit," she muttered.  She stood up though.  She looked at Bridget. "Back soon," she reassured her.  
   
"I'll come with you."  All eyes turned to Erica in surprise.   She stood up.  "You might need a lawyer," she added in explanation.    
   
There was silence. No one challenged her.

Then Franky spoke.  "I don't need a lawyer," She said with certainty, "I haven't done anything wrong."

Erica had Bridget's words echoing in her ears. "I can help," she said. She still had her licence to practice law. She had kept it current because while politics had intrigued her, she was never sure of it as a lasting career.

"I think she should go with you."

It was Bridget who had spoken. Much as she hated the idea of it, much as she had dismissed this woman as insincere, she also realised Erica Davidson might be right. It might need more than a psychologist to outplay Ferguson this time, it might need a lawyer.

 

 


	11. The Slippery Slope

Franky thought about her options.  Denial, that was always a good one, it had proved its worth over time.  The truth, it was risky but could reap big rewards, Franky acknowledged, thinking of Bridget.  Or the shifting ambiguity that lay between those two, where a girl could find herself caught in a web of her own making if she wasn't careful.  Only the clever, the clueless, or the super cocky ventured into that realm.

She was aware of Erica sitting silently in the seat next to her in the back of the unmarked police car.  She could see her bare knees out of the corner of her eye but not her face.  She wondered what Erica was making of all this.  Franky turned her head to see Erica's expression.  It had given her away in the past.  She would deny her attraction to Franky in one breath while her eyes told tales of lust and longing.  It had been fascinating to observe.  Now in profile she reflected a calm composure.  Her eyes, that looked ahead, were thoughtful.  She must have sensed Franky watching her because she turned her head.  Her blue eyes seeking green, then she smiled.  Franky had always loved that smile because it had been so hard to win.  All her efforts to tease it out of Erica were rewarded in one golden moment as she basked in its warmth. Now she wondered what she had done to deserve it.

As though Erica sensed her confusion, she leant across the small gap between them and put her mouth to Franky's ear.  "I like it that we're on the same side for a change," she whispered, her breath soft and warm, her perfume faint and pleasing, her words unifying.

Franky saw the detective's eyes on them in the rear view mirror.  She returned the look with a steely uncompromising stare.  Fuck you, it said.  Beneath the bravado though, Franky was worried.  Five years ago one moment had changed her life.  She knew, more than anyone, what was waiting for her if things went against her, and she knew she wouldn't survive it, not a second time.  

They waited for twenty minutes in an interview room.  Franky alternated between pacing and sitting slouched in a chair with her arms crossed and her foot tapping.   

Erica watched her.  For the first time she could see the prisoner she had known in Franky's demeanour.  The caged unhappy beast that wanted a fair go but expected to be vilified.  And she would be.  Her record would prejudice the police.  They would doubt her, question her and when Franky finally reacted, they would smile knowingly.  Erica hoped Franky was smart enough not to react, and instead be helpful and compliant and charming.  

As the minutes passed Erica’s mind drifted on to her discussion with Bridget Westfall. She replayed it in her mind.  She had come off second best and she knew it.  The psychologist had dismissed her concerns effortlessly and then called her to account.  Erica hadn't liked the clinical assessment of her actions.  She couldn't help wondering if Franky saw things the same way.  

 The door opened.  Detective McNally entered with a uniformed police officer.  She sat down at table across from Erica and indicated Franky should also take a seat.

"Do you know Sarah Carson?"  She asked Franky once the preliminaries were over.

"Who?" Franky asked immediately.

"This woman," the detective slid a photo of Sarah across the table.  Erica glanced curiously at the brown haired girl with petite features and doe-like eyes.  She looked the picture of innocence.  Erica wondered what Franky's connection was to her.  

Franky remembered Bridget's last words to her as she hugged her tightly.  "Just tell the truth," she had murmured quickly.  

"I've met her," Franky admitted.  She had thought about how much the police would be able to verify independently. "We met at the gym last week."  Any number of people might remember the two of them in the cafe.  

"You said before that you didn't know her," the detective pointed out.  It sounded accusing.

"I'm not going to remember every chick who hits on me," Franky dismissed the accusation and her lie with a cocky grin.  The detective just watched her.  "Besides, she never told me her surname," Franky added lightly in explanation.  

"Have you seen her since?" 

"Yeah," Erica could see Franky made the admission reluctantly.

"Sarah Carson says you accosted her on Glenferrie Road this afternoon," the detective told her. "That true?"

"Talking isn't a crime," Franky pointed out.

"So you did accost her?"  The detective pushed.

"I tapped her on the shoulder to attract her attention," Franky clarified.  "We talked, end of story."

"I've looked you up," the Detective told her.  "You're a violent individual."  It was a deliberate attempt to bait her.

"I'm reformed," Franky said with a smile.  "Just ask the parole board." She raised her eyebrows.  "So unless you've got something else, Detective, something other than reputation, something that will stand up in court," and Erica realised then that Franky didn't need her help.

The detective was unfazed. "What did you talk about?"  She continued.  Franky shrugged.  "She said you accused her of stalking you and that you threatened her."  The detective referred to her notes again.

"Not how I remember it," was all Franky said.  

"How do you remember it then?" The detective asked a little impatiently.  So far in this war of words, Franky had the upper hand and the police officer knew it.

Franky expelled a breath and stared at the ceiling.  "We talked about what she'd been up to," she said at last as though dragging it from her memory banks then shook her head slightly, dismissively.  

The detective sat back.  "If you keep stalling we'll be here all night."

Erica intervened.  "Detective, Franky is cooperating with your enquiries," she pointed out.  "You cannot expect her to remember word for word the conversation."

"I asked her if she'd been up my way lately because I thought I'd seen her in the park and I was sorry I missed her," Franky said quickly, reframing the conversation to suit her purposes without changing its essence.  "I think I asked if she'd dropped by the house at all," she added with a smile, "nothing special, Detective."

"Did you push her into the traffic?"  

Erica waited.  Franky was smart enough and understood the law sufficiently to know the implications of her answer.

"She did that herself," Franky said definitively.  She knew it sounded implausible and she crossed her arms against her chest.  

The detective looked sceptical.  "Why would she do that?"  

"How should I know?  She's probably a fucking fruitcake," Franky said with exasperation.  "You've talked her, right?  Does she sound right in the head to you?"

The detective didn't answer directly.  "Can anyone verify your version of events?"

"Yeah," Franky said immediately, "anyone who was there."  She sounded frustrated, impatient suddenly.

"Witnesses at the scene confirm that a dark haired woman wearing black jeans and a red checked flannel shirt was talking to Sarah at the time she fell."  The detective informed them.  

"Unless you have a statement from one of them saying they actually saw Franky push Sarah," Erica point out, "then all you have, Detective, is a case of this woman's word against Franky's.  Do you have any statements to that effect?" She asked coolly.  

"Not yet," Detective McNally acknowledged.  "But when I do, your client is going straight back to Wentworth," she promised.

"I think we're done here," Erica stood up.  Franky followed her lead.  

"It’s a strange coincidence, isn't it?" the detective said suddenly as she leant back in her chair, "this incident and that break-in occurring in the same week."  Franky was silent.  "Hard not to make a connection," she continued.

"See, here's what I'm thinking," Detective McNally explained.  "That Sarah was your intruder and you found out somehow and confronted her."  She was watching Franky closely.  "That would kind of make sense," she added, almost to herself.

Franky couldn't tell if she was fishing or actually had worked it out.  Either way she didn't plan on helping out any time soon.  She wanted this nightmare to go away and connecting Sarah to the break-in gave her a motive for pushing her into the traffic.

"Do you have any more questions for my client?" Erica asked.  As she said it she wondered what Franky was involved in.  She had always had scams going in prison, Erica had been aware of it even if she hadn't always known the details.  If she had breached her parole then she would find herself back in Wentworth serving out the remainder of her sentence behind bars.  She wondered if Franky would risk that, if there was anything worth that risk.  

"You can go," the detective told them reluctantly.  

Erica called a taxi.  Franky was quiet as they waited for it to arrive.  She had seen the look in Erica's eye as they left the interview room and she recognised it from Wentworth.  Erica planned to get to the bottom of things.

Erica gave the taxi driver an address Franky didn't recognise.  "Where are we going?" She asked.

"My place," Erica told her briefly.  "You are going to tell me what's going on."  She said resolutely.

Franky didn't like that idea.  She wasn't a sharer by nature.  She liked to work things out on her own.  Sharing her problems only led to exposing her vulnerabilities.  It was the lesser of the two evils though because she had already discovered being alone with Erica could lead to trouble of the most alluring kind.

"Not your place," she said quickly.

"Why not? It's private and we won't be disturbed," Erica assured her.

"Exactly," Franky muttered drily.  She knew precisely how to distract Erica from her purpose and being alone with her only made that easier.  

Erica suddenly realised Franky's concern.  She couldn't help smiling.  "Relax Franky, your virtue is safe.  I promise not to kiss you."

Franky had to accept her word and therefore her proposal.  It wasn't Erica she didn't trust though, it was herself.  She could feel the powerful pull Erica had over her and it confused her.  What she felt for Bridget was more intense than anything she had previously experienced.  It was important to her.  Bridget was important to her.  Her mind wanted to respect that but her body refused to comply.  It was a dilemma.  

Erica's apartment was modern and stylishly decorated.  It reminded Franky of those display homes, carefully designed to reflect a magazine lifestyle.  There were clean lines and uncluttered surfaces, colours were in muted tones and the artwork was big and bold.  Franky looked around curiously, looking for signs of Erica.  

"Drink?" Erica opened the fridge and produced a bottle of white wine.  Franky noticed there wasn't any food in the fridge.  She wondered what Erica ate.  "I'm not home much," she offered in explanation, following Franky's gaze.  She poured two wines and handed one to Franky.

"So," she said, looking serious.  "What's the real story with Sarah Carson?"

Franky shrugged.  "Like I said, we met at the pool and had a coffee.  She was odd," Franky remembered.

"In what way?"  Erica sat down on the couch and kicked off her heels.  Her toenails were painted, Franky noticed as she curled them up and under her.  The space on the couch invited Franky to sit down.  She remained standing.  

"I dunno, there was something about her," Franky said vaguely.  It was a sense she'd had more than anything, not easily explained.  "Then she swiped my gym card and turned up at Bridget's place pretending like we were BFFs."

"And the break in?" Erica asked, "how does that connect?"

Franky shrugged.  She was less inclined to talk about the break in, it led to Ferguson, which led to Meg Jackson.  "Maybe it doesn't," she offered.  "Maybe it was just a coincidence."

"But you don't think so," Erica said intuitively.  She sensed Franky was holding something back but for now she was content to let her keep her secret.  "So how did you come to be talking to Sarah on Glenferrie Road?"

"I saw her by chance.  I decided to speak to her, to tell her to back off but she made it sound like I was paranoid, that I had it all wrong about her then she just stepped back." Franky still couldn't believe it.

"By accident?" Erica asked.

"Yeah," but as Franky reviewed it in her mind she wondered, "maybe, I don't know." She looked at Erica.  "Why would she step back deliberately?"

"If she is unbalanced, she might," Erica suggested.  "Or high."

Franky considered that.  She remembered Skye thinking she could fly.  Drugs could do that to a person.  "Why would she say I pushed her?"

"Maybe because that is how she remembers it, or she doesn't remember and that is the logical explanation her mind attaches to it, I don't know I'm not a psychologist." Erica smiled slightly and sipped her wine.  "Maybe you should ask your girlfriend."

There was another explanation.  Franky remembered how Ferguson had influenced Jodie to self-harm.  Was Sarah Carson another victim of Ferguson's clever mind games?  But how could she possibly have primed Sarah from a psychiatric institution?  Unless Sarah had been a patient too, Franky thought suddenly, she'd mentioned her therapist to Franky at their first meeting.  Fucking hell!

"What is it?"  Erica was watching Franky carefully.  

Franky pulled out her phone.  "I've gotta go," was all she said.  

Erica stood up and put her hand over Franky's fingers to stop her dialling.  "Franky," she protested.  "What is it?"  

Franky hesitated then asked a question of her own.  "Can you get access to the patient lists for the Thomas Embling Psychiatric Hospital?"  

"Why?" Erica asked.

"I think Sarah Carson was a patient there," Franky explained.

Erica had heard the name of that institution recently.  "Isn't that where they are keeping Joan Ferguson?"  Erica remembered her discussions with the Attorney General's office.

"Are they?" Franky asked innocently.  

Erica laughed lightly.  "All right," she agreed.  "I'll see what I can find out."  She removed her hand from Franky's but her eyes never left her face.  "You better go," she said eventually.  "Or I might break my promise," she said softly, letting the idea tease them both.  "And we wouldn't want that," her expression contradicted her words.  

Franky swallowed.  This seduction game Erica was playing was torture.  It was taking every ounce of her will power to stop herself from leaning in and tasting Erica's lips again, claiming that mouth completely to silence temptation.  

Only it wouldn't stop there.  Not this time.  She would need to sate her desire to pull those hips towards her, to taste the nectar within, to bring Erica to the brink and beyond. 

She leant in slowly, deliberately.  "I think that's exactly what you want," she murmured.  Her mouth was dangerously close to those lips.  If Erica turned her head now, she left the thought unfinished.  "You want what you've always wanted from me," she told her softly with a knowing smile.  

Erica held her breath.  If Franky put into words what Erica had only given voice to in her dreams then she would be undone.  No promise would save her.  The dam would break and wreak delicious dangerous havoc.  "What?"  The word escaped, the first droplet.

She felt Franky's breath on her neck then her voice in her ear.  "Don't tempt me," she whispered.  "I might lose control."  Franky losing control was exactly what Erica wanted.  She wanted Franky to use her strength to dominate her, just as she wanted desperately to resist her, and the friction between those two would spark an uncontrollable fire within Erica.  "So I think you're right," Franky was murmuring.

She was right, she knew it, she was so certain of it and was only surprised it had taken Franky this long to realise it.  "Yes," she breathed, her eyes closed, lost in her fantasy.

"I should go," Franky said in her normal voice, pulling back.

Erica's eyes opened to see Franky with a satisfied grin on her face.  Understanding dawned and she frowned.   Frustration was written clearly across her face.  "You enjoyed that," was all she said.  She returned to the couch and watched Franky call a taxi, a grin still lingering on that attractive face.  

When Franky arrived home there were lights on but no sign of Bridget.  She found her asleep on the bed, still dressed, surrounded by notepaper.  Franky never wrote anything down.  She used her phone or a computer to record things but Bridget still liked the feel of a pen in her hand.

She shoved the papers out of her way and sat down to take her boots off.  She heard Bridget stir.  "You're back," she said sleepily.  "What happened?"

"While you've been happy napping you mean?" Franky asked as she rolled onto her side facing Bridget.  She grinned.  She had a light-hearted playfulness about her.

"I closed my eyes for a second," Bridget protested.  

Franky hugged her, laughing.  "If you say so, Gidge," she murmured into her neck then kissed her there.  She felt Bridget's arms go round her and she rolled onto her back pulling Bridget on top of her.  She breathed in smelling Bridget’s perfume.

"So what happened?" Bridget asked again.  

Franky filled her in.  Bridget was sceptical that Sarah had been a patient in the same psych unit as Ferguson.  "It takes months of grooming to wield that kind of influence over someone, even if they are susceptible.  Ferguson hasn't been there long enough."  Franky let go of the idea reluctantly.  It had all seemed to make sense.

"Do you think the police will be back?" Bridget asked.

"Only if a witness says I pushed Sarah, then I'm floating in a sea of shit apparently," Franky told her.

"They won't say that though," Bridget confirmed.

"Won't they?" She asked cynically. "Thing is Gidge," Franky sighed, "I tried to grab her as she stepped back, to stop her you know, because I realised the stupid bitch was on a one way trip to tomorrow land," she explained.  "What if some fucker actually thinks I was trying to push her?" 

Bridget hoped Franky was wrong.  "Louisa thought I should go down to the hospital and scare the crap out of Sarah," she told her as a distraction.

"You told her what's going on?" Franky didn't like the idea of it.  She didn't want everyone knowing her business.  "Great, let's just post it on social media."

Bridget heard the reproach in Franky's tone. "Just the highlights," She reassured her.  "We can trust her, Franky," she said.  "Anyway I told her intimidating Sarah probably wouldn't help you out much."  She added more lightly to relieve the tension.

"I dunno," Franky speculated, letting go of her annoyance.  Bridget wasn't the enemy.  She shifted slightly so Bridget wasn't squashing her boob.  "Maybe she’s got a point.  If you ask me Sarah needs a fucking light bulb moment."  The more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her.  Intimidation was something Franky had understood well and executed flawlessly in Wentworth.  Things were different on the outside though.

"Louisa is a bit like you actually," Bridget said randomly as though she had read Franky’s thoughts.   "Charming, funny, full of energy and passion."

"You forgot smart," Franky told her with a grin.  She liked hearing Bridget acknowledging her good points. 

"And modest," added Bridget drily. She felt Franky's stomach contract with laughter.  

"I don't get this," Franky said after a while.  "If Ferguson isn't manipulating Sarah then what's going on?"

"Good question," Bridget replied.  She didn't have an answer.  It had to be Ferguson.  It had all the hallmarks of Ferguson's modus operandi.  If Ferguson's end game was putting Franky back in Wentworth though then surely this was a long shot.  She wondered.  She knew how much this must be affecting Franky, even the thought of going back to prison would be enough to mess with her mind.  Bridget remembered the self-harming incident, which Franky had dismissed with a flippant remark and flirty smile.  Bridget knew that in the past when things got stressful and out of control, Franky had resorted to desperate measures.

“I’m going to speak her again,” Bridget decided.  Much as she didn't want to, much as she felt it was playing into Ferguson's hands, the psychologist decided she had little choice but to go back and confront her.  Meg Jackson was a shadowy menace compared with this current threat.

They were content just to lie together, quietly, lost in their own thoughts.  Bridget had rested her head on Franky's chest and was happy just to listen to her breathe.  Franky's arm was still encircling her, her hand resting lightly against her ribs.  

"You're so important to me," Franky said suddenly.  

"I know," Bridget said softly.  Franky took hold of her hand and let their fingers intertwine.  She waited for Franky to say more but there was only silence.

Bridget had spent all her life drawing people out, getting them to confront their fears, their true selves, understanding and accepting what drives their behaviour.  It is often in the silence though where truth is spoken, the words unsaid, the thoughts only spoken in deeds.

She thought about the last question Erica Davidson put to her.  She wanted to dismiss it.  A part of Bridget though, the honest, upright, fair part couldn't dismiss it.  Franky's emotional maturity was still in its infancy.  It was possible Franky didn't know what her feelings towards Bridget were.  

Saturday morning saw Franky leaning against the island bench, still in her running gear, eating muesli and checking her messages.  There was one from Boomer asking her to visit.  She hadn't been back to Wentworth since her release.  Bridget had kept her up to date if she asked after Boomer or Liz but otherwise she'd done nothing.  It was time to face it, she realised, to remind herself.  

The other was from Erica saying she had some information.  Franky glanced at the time.  It was only 11.15 and the weekend.  Erica couldn't possibly have found out anything so soon.  She rang her.

"Sarah wasn't a patient there," Erica told her.

"I know," Franky said immediately, "I wasted your time." It was an apology.  

"Hang on" Erica stopped her.  "She wasn't a patient but she works there, as one of the cleaners."

Franky thought about that.  "It doesn't matter," she said at last.  "My idea doesn't wash anyhow."

"What were you thinking?" Erica asked.  She sipped her coffee as she stared out the window to the park which her apartment overlooked.  Children were playing.  Erica watched them with a smile.

"Forget it," Franky said dismissively.  "You know that's pretty impressive," she couldn't help adding. "How quick you tracked that info down on a weekend."

She heard Erica laugh.  "Contacts, Franky," she told her.  "I'm going to do a little digging into Sarah Carson's background.  It never hurts to be forearmed."

"I don't think she's from around here," Franky said after a moment, remembering their conversation at the gym.  "She said something about being new to town."

"Okay," Erica rested her head against the glass.  There wasn't any reason to linger on the call.  "How did you sleep?"

"Like a baby," Franky replied.  It wasn't true.  Dreams had haunted her sleep and left her grainy eyed and zombie like.  The run had helped bring her back to something approaching human.  

Bridget walked into the kitchen and began to make coffee.  She waved a mug in Franky's direction, who shook her head and mouthed 'shower' then flicked her thumb towards the front door to indicate she was going out.  "I've gotta go."  She told Erica.

"Where are you going?" Bridget asked when Franky put down her phone.

"Wentworth," Franky said briefly.

Franky watched Boomer shuffle into the visitor's room, her eyes squinting as she produced a big, Boomer smile.  Her ample form moved eagerly as Franky opened her arms in greeting.  "Jeez Booms, you put on some weight or something?" She asked as she wrapped her arms around her.

"Nah," Boomer denied immediately.  "It's these fucking tops," she pulled at her white fitted t-shirt, "they don't suit me, aye."  She sat down.

"So, you okay?"  Franky asked.  

"Yeah, I guess," Boomer said without much enthusiasm.  

"Yeah?"  Franky's foot was tapping restlessly and she glanced towards Will Jackson, who was watching her.  "You show that stuff to your lawyer?"  She asked, pulling her eyes back to her friend.

"Yeah," Boomer sniffed and picked absently at her nose.

"And?" Franky asked a little impatiently.

"I dunno, Franky, he said it wasn't going to work." Boomer sounded apologetic, as though somehow it was her fault.

"What?" Franky exclaimed in disbelief.  "Fuck!" She said with exasperation.  She looked at Boomer and saw the disappointment in her face.  "You gave him everything, right?"  Boomer nodded obediently.  "What's his name?"

"Andrew Zelko," Boomer told her.  Franky knew him from legal aid.  He had never inspired her with much confidence.  A tired man.  He knew the law but lacked the inspiration to apply it with innovation.

"I'll talk to him, Booms," she promised.  "We'll get this sorted, right?" She encouraged with a smile.  

"Yeah?" Boomer sounded hopeful.  "Coz I don't reckon I can handle it in here for another seven years.  It's been fucking crazy since you left.  There's a new crew and they've got it in for Red," Boomer lowered her voice.  Franky listened reluctantly as Boomer told her the details of the war that was raging within.  Her foot tapped more vigorously.  The thought that she could be back amongst it gave rise to a feeling of panic.  She could feel herself beginning to perspire.  "Are you all right?"  Boomer was peering at her anxiously.

"Yeah, no, I gotta go Booms," she said hastily.  

Boomer's face dropped.  "You only just got here," she said with accusation.  

"I just remembered I've gotta be somewhere," Franky lied.  "I'm sorry Booms, I'll come and visit another week," she promised.

"Yeah, well you're probably busy," Boomer said, sounding miffed, "getting on with your life and all that."

Franky looked at her friend.  Fuck, she thought, she owed Boomer.  Just suck it up Doyle, she told herself.  "No, you're right," she conceded.  "I'll stay a bit longer."

"Go if you have to," Boomer said distantly.  "I don't care."

"Booms," Franky sighed.  "I'm staying," she said firmly.  "What else is going on?"

"Well, Vinegar Tits is Governor," Boomer moved on happily, forgetting her annoyance as quickly as a child.  "Oh and Miss Westfall is back, but you'd know that," she added.

Franky shook her head slightly with confusion.  "Why would I know that?" 

"You being shacked up with her, I mean," Boomer clarified.  

Franky just stared at her.  "What the fuck?" She asked at last.

"It's all over the fucking prison according to Boomer," Franky told Bridget later.  "Everyone knows."

"It's just a hangover from those rumours Kim Chang was circulating," Bridget dismissed Franky's concern.  "No one knows anything." She said calmly.  She put her arms around Franky's waist and leant into her playfully, forcing Franky backwards.  "Let's go to bed," she suggested with a smile.  "I've missed you." She said as she kissed her, slipping her hands into the back pockets of Franky's jeans and pulling her closer.  Franky smiled reluctantly.  Since she had first used it in the library at Wentworth, she returned to that expression when she struggled to find better words to express her feelings.  She had noticed that Bridget had also adopted it.  Guilt flooded through her.  She remembered how she had felt in that moment between the bookshelves when Bridget had given her hope of something more, something meaningful, in a place without hope.  It had left her heart feeling light and yet so full it seemed to be bursting with joy.  She had wondered in that moment if that was how love felt.

"I've been thinking," Bridget said later.

"Surprise me," Franky muttered lazily.  She had her eyes closed but she hadn't been asleep.  She'd also been thinking.  

"What if Jodie wasn't the first," Bridget said thoughtfully.

"Huh?"  Franky opened an eye.

"I was thinking about what you said last night," Bridget explained.  "What if Ferguson had tried before to manipulate someone to self-harm? Prisons are full of women with low self-esteem.  It would be the perfect hunting ground for someone like Ferguson."

"So?"

"Well, what if Sarah knew Ferguson not from the psych unit but from prison?"

"Shit," Franky muttered as realisation dawned.  "Where was Ferguson based before Wentworth?"

"I don't know," Bridget said.

Franky sat up and pulled on some clothes.  "Let's find out."

Bridget groaned.  "Don't get up," she pleaded.  "Come back here," she opened her arms inviting Franky into them.  

Franky smiled distractedly.  "I'm hungry anyway, aren't you?  I'll make us an omelette." She offered as she got up.  

 Once in the kitchen instead of getting out eggs she put her hands against the edge of the island bench and pushed back, dropping her head and expelling her breath quickly.  She had a problem she realised.  When she and Bridget had been making love Franky had been thinking about Erica.  She had been fantasising about what it would be like if it was Erica's blonde head between her legs, her tongue fucking her, her hair caressing Franky’s inner thighs.  And just the possibility of it had made her come with a sudden intensity that had surprised her.  Her mind had turned traitor and was now conspiring with her body.  She had lost her last weapon.  It was her own fucking fault too because last night she had bought into Erica’s games by teasing her and now it had backfired.

She knew she was in trouble.


	12. Divide to Conquer

Franky’s phone was vibrating on the coffee table.  Bridget watched her girlfriend glance at it then ignore it.  She looked curiously at the display and saw the call was from Erica Davidson. 

“Don’t you want to get that?” She asked after a moment. 

“Nope,” Franky said without glancing up from her law book. 

“She might be calling about the investigation,” Bridget suggested.

“She’s not,” Franky said with certainty. 

Bridget frowned.  “How do you know that?” She asked after a moment.  The phone had stopped vibrating and sat silent for a moment.  Then it began vibrating once more.  It was Erica calling again.  “The police might have been in contact.”

“I told you already,” Franky said a little impatiently, “she’s not calling about that.”  Franky had seven messages from Erica and none of them mentioned the police.

“Okay,” Bridget backed off slightly and her tone was pacifying.  Franky had been in a strange mood for a few days now.  Bridget understood she was feeling stressed.  The police investigation coupled with university exams looming and Boomer’s lawyer refusing to follow Franky’s defence strategy were all creating a pressure pot.

Franky gave Bridget an apologetic look.  “Sorry,” she said with a sigh and rubbed her eyes.  She tossed her book onto the coffee table, dislodging her phone in the process.

Bridget watched as Franky wearily rubbed her forehead.  "I just-," she shook her head, "I thought it would be easier, you know."

"What did you think would be easier?" Bridget asked.  She closed her book and put it aside.  It was the first indication she’d had for a while that Franky might talk about how she was feeling.

"To move on," Franky said with a sigh.  "I thought getting out was the end game.  I thought the rest would be a breeze."

"But?" Bridget knew the frustrations Franky felt were not unusual.

"I just keep getting dragged back, like a fucking yoyo, first Ferguson then Sarah fucking Carson.  I'm never going to be free of it!" 

"It being Wentworth?" Bridget clarified, “or something else?”

"The past," Franky muttered vaguely.

She stood up.  Avoiding Erica wasn't solving the issue.  Besides, Ferguson was playing a long game and Franky needed information.  Despite repeated efforts, Bridget had been unable to get in to see the ex-governor.  Ferguson had refused to speak to her, not once but three times, and Franky was beginning to doubt Bridget would get the opportunity again.  This left Franky with two options, both of which were unpalatable.  She could speak to Sarah Carson.  The idea Louisa Kelly had planted still lingered in Franky's mind.  She was very much aware though that any attempt to contact her would be incredibly risky.  If it went wrong and they found out about it the police would see it as an attempt to intimidate the victim, which would only add to their suspicions.  The other option was to get Erica to use her contacts.  Franky was sure she could convince Erica to do this.  Hadn't Erica practically offered them to her in their last telephone discussion?  However, she had studiously avoided Erica since the weekend. She had to laugh at the irony of it.  After two years of relentlessly pursuing the sexy blonde, she was now the one in hiding, unclear what was between them and what to do about it.

"Why won't Ferguson see you?"  Franky felt like the game had changed and they were the last to know. 

Bridget thought about her last conversation with Dr Williamson, the resident psychiatrist at the institution.  "You have no official standing here, I agreed to your previous visits because the patient requested them.  Now she has stated unequivocally that she has no desire to see you."  It told her nothing of Ferguson's state of mind but she heard definitively the door being closed in her face.

"I don't know but I don't like it," Bridget admitted.

"We need to bait her," Franky said, thinking aloud.  “Make her an offer she can't refuse."

"Like Vera on a plate," Bridget suggested jokingly.  She knew Vera's betrayal must be eating away at Ferguson.  She noticed the look on Franky's face.  "You can't be serious," she said as realisation dawned.

"Why not?"  Franky crossed her arms and looked a little defiant.  "It's genius," she acknowledged.  She picked up Bridget's phone and tossed it to her.  "Send her a text," she suggested, "with any luck she still has the mobile."

When Bridget woke up the next morning she discovered she was alone.  Franky's side of the bed hadn't even been slept in.  She found her asleep on the sofa.  "What are you doing out here?" She asked her.

Franky stretched, yawned and smiled.  She looked proud of herself.  "Kicking arse," she replied.

"Good for you," Bridget replied with a smile.  She leant down and kissed her exhausted girlfriend. 

Franky virtually inhaled her coffee while trying to submit her essay online, swearing at the slowness of the upload.

"Everyone is probably uploading and their system can't handle it," Bridget told her.  "You shouldn't leave it until the last minute."

"Thanks for the tip," Franky said drily.

"Pleasure," Bridget had replied with a quick smile but she could see Franky wasn't listening.  She wished suddenly that they could have some time without the distractions of university, work, or Ferguson.

"Let's go out for dinner tonight," she suggested on a whim.  The idea of sitting at a table for two in a quiet, secluded corner with Franky's gaze fixed firmly on her while they talked was very appealing all of a sudden.  There would be no distractions, nothing and no one claiming their attention except each other.

Franky looked up.  "I can't," she said apologetically.  "I've got uni."  She glanced back to the screen of her laptop, still waiting for the upload to complete. 

Erica was at the office when she saw it.  Her phone dinged telling her she had a message.  She picked it up hopefully, thinking Franky had finally decided to return her calls.  She was disappointed.  It wasn’t a message, it was an email and the sender was unknown to her.  It contained a link to a YouTube video and no message except in the subject line which read _Watch this_.  Curiosity got the better of her and instead of flagging it as spam and deleting it, she opened the link.  She hoped it didn’t contain a virus.  At first she couldn’t see or hear anything then she heard Franky’s voice.  “It’s late,” she was saying.  Then Erica heard her own voice asking if it was too late for a drink and she realised what she was watching.  The scene unfolded before her eyes, their conversation then Franky kissing her, Erica kissing back. It was clear these two people only had one thing on their minds.  The footage lasted until they moved into the darkness of the front porch.  She replayed it knowing now what she was watching.  The camera angle indicated it had been filmed from near the garage looking across the front of the house.  The quality suggested it was taken with a mobile phone. 

She stood up.  The video clip worried her.  She wasn’t sure of its purpose and who else had a copy of it.  If Franky wouldn’t return her calls, she would confront her face to face.  Something was going on and Erica was tired of being out of the loop. 

Franky was on her lunch-break.  The all-nighter she had pulled to get her last essay completed was catching up with her and she was exhausted.  It was sunny and she was camped on a park bench near the legal aid office.  Her sunnies hid her eyes, which were firmly closed, and her long legs were stretched out in front of her.  There was a takeaway coffee on the seat next to her.  She had spent the previous hour talking again to Boomer's lawyer.  Andrew Zelko was being pig-headed.  She hadn’t convinced him and in the end it had given her a headache.  Her charm, which worked on most, didn’t work on him.  He hadn’t liked the way she had perched on the corner of his desk, leaning over him, intimidating him he’d said.  He said it was harassment.  She would tell Boomer to sack him, she decided, and she’d find someone else to represent her friend.

This decided she let her mind settle on Bridget.  The usual calm that came from thinking about her girlfriend was missing.  Franky knew it was because she was feeling guilty.  It is human nature to justify your behaviour and Franky was no less human than the next person.  So far she had managed to justify it by what she hadn’t done.  She hadn’t fucked Erica, despite temptation, and when the situation had reached a critical point she hadn’t taken her calls.  Today though, the usual justifications didn’t soothe Franky’s guilt.  She had left prison thinking she would be a better person on the outside where survival wasn’t at the cost of someone else but she was struggling and she knew it.  Good intentions only took a person so far on the road to redemption she realised, and it was action that would define her.   She would tell Bridget, she decided suddenly.  She would be honest and confess to the second kiss and her confusion over her feelings and she would accept the consequences.  She called Bridget.

"Still want to have dinner with me?" she asked.

"What about uni?" Bridget was in her office checking her emails. 

"Fuck it," Franky said, "I'll catch it up online.  I want to talk to you," she added.

Bridget didn't argue.  "I'll make a reservation somewhere," she offered, “okay?”

Franky felt a little better suddenly.  “Sure,” she agreed.  She rang off and closed her eyes again. 

A shadow took the sun from her face.  She opened her eyes and saw Erica standing before her.  "What are you doing here?"  She asked with surprise.

"I wouldn't be if you bothered to return my calls," Erica told her.  She sounded annoyed.  "What's going on, Franky?"

"How did you find me?"  Franky asked with a sigh.

"I asked at your office and some woman told me you were at lunch and to check the park," Erica told her.  “It wasn’t difficult.” 

Franky could guess who had been the informer, the thirty-something receptionist loved to know everyone's business.  "What do you want?"

"Why are you avoiding me all of a sudden?" Erica asked with exasperation.  "Is this about Bridget?"  She added when Franky didn't answer.  She suspected Bridget Westfall would have taken great delight in repeating their conversation at dinner.  Franky continued to look at her through the protective screen of her sunglasses.  Of course it was about Bridget, Erica realised.  "Look, I don't know what she told you but-"

Franky interrupted her.  "It's not that."

"Good," Erica sounded relieved, "because I only said to her what I've already said to you."  She said, as though that justified it, and in her mind it did. "She had a responsibility to you and she abused it."

Franky felt a wave of irritation wash over her.  "Fuck Erica, is that the only song in your playlist because I'm sick of listening to it!  Bridget is the one person who has never let me down.  You haven’t the first clue about her if you think she would abuse her position or me like that.  I am never going to agree with you, got it?” she finished with.

Erica heard the finality in the tone and words.  “Okay,” she conceded with a sigh.  She had pushed the subject with Franky as far as she could and she would get nowhere harping on about it.  "I want to show you something," she said seriously.

“I’m due back at the office,” Franky told her without regret.  She picked up her coffee and sat up.  

“It will only take a minute, and I think you’ll want to see this,” Erica insisted.  She sat down on bench.  Franky sipped her coffee disinterestedly while Erica fiddled with her phone.  Eventually she gave it to Franky.

The footage was grainy and hard to see in the sunlight.  Franky shaded the screen.  Suddenly she realised what she was watching.  “Where did you get this?”  She asked with a sense of foreboding. 

“An anonymous email,” Erica told her. 

"Who else has it?" Franky pictured Bridget watching it and seeing Franky betray her trust for a second unforgivable time.

"It's a private link," Erica told her.  "Only those with the link can view it.  You didn't receive it?"  Franky shook her head.  "Check your spam folder," Erica suggested.  If Franky hadn't also been sent a copy then it was possible that Erica was the target.  Politics was a dirty business and this could be used as leverage.  She watched as Franky checked her emails.

"I've got it too," she said after a moment.  "Shit!" She muttered.  She looked at the time stamp.  It had arrived late last night.  She could make all the apologies in the world, and all the promises, but none would survive the scrutiny of Bridget Westfall once she'd seen this clip.  "It doesn't even show the whole thing," she muttered.  "I mean it looks like we went into that alcove to fuck."  Erica was silent.  "No one is gonna believe nothing happened."  Bridget wouldn’t believe it is what she meant.

"Franky, who sent this?" Erica asked what she felt was the pertinent question.  "Someone was in your front garden watching us," she pointed out.  "It’s creepy."

"What did you find out about Sarah Carson?" Franky asked, looking up from her phone.

Erica made the connection immediately.  "You think Sarah Carson sent this, from her hospital bed?" She asked incredulously.  That's exactly what Franky thought.  "Why would she?"

Franky felt like her life was spiralling out of control.  Only it wasn't, Ferguson was pulling all the strings like a master puppeteer.  She had to get her life back before she lost everything.

She looked at Erica, who was watching her intently.  "Does Sarah Carson have a prison record?"  If she could work out Sarah's motivation then maybe she could influence her.

"No," Erica answered immediately.  "Why did you think she might?" She could see from Franky's expression that her answer came as a surprise.

"No reason," Franky replied flatly.  She had been so certain Bridget's theory had been right that she hadn't for a moment considered it might be wrong.  "What then?" She asked but her enthusiasm along with her energy was waning.

Erica told what she had found out.  Sarah Carson had grown up in the country town of Bendigo in Victoria.  She was one of two children.  When she was seven Sarah’s baby sister accidently drowned in the backyard swimming pool.  Her parents had both been schoolteachers at one of the private schools in the area.  Her grades at school were above average and she got into university.  She failed most of her subjects though and dropped out after a year.  Erica had been unable to find anything on her beyond that point.

Franky was thoughtful.  There was nothing extraordinary about her story.  Hundreds of kids dropped out of uni each year for all sorts of reasons.  Erica not being able to find anything beyond that period was odd though. 

"One thing that was interesting,” Erica added after a moment. “On the university application she had to list her next of kin."

Franky knew that from her own application.  She had put down her father, reluctantly, although she left his contact details blank.  She wondered now if Erica had filled in his details before sending in the form.

"So?"

"Sarah didn’t list her parents, she put down her aunt." Erica was watching Franky closely. 

"So?" She repeated.  She was too tired for guessing games.

"Her aunt's name is Joan Ferguson."

Franky thought for a moment her mind was playing tricks on her but the expression on Erica's face told her that she hadn't misheard.  "Shit!"

"So I guess there is a little more going on than just some confused girl trying to hit on you," Erica said in conclusion.  She wondered just how much Franky was withholding.

"Yeah," Franky admitted as she stood up.  "I’m late.”  She tossed her coffee cup in the nearby bin. 

"Wait a minute!" She heard Erica say.  “Why won’t you return my calls?”  Franky looked back. Erica saw her hesitation.  “I know there is something between us.  Don’t you want to find out what it is?”  She asked. 

“We had two years to find that out, Erica, remember?” She said bluntly.  “Only you didn’t want to, and now it’s too late.”  She walked away.

At the restaurant that evening they ordered a bottle of wine and pasta dishes with a salad on the side.  Franky had pumped herself so full of caffeine to compensate for lack of sleep that she felt light headed.

Now she was faced with the moment, she felt slightly queasy.  She wished suddenly that they hadn't gone out and instead were sitting on the couch together where they could talk freely.

"I'm glad you skipped Uni," Bridget said as she sipped her wine.  She sounded flat to Franky which was uncharacteristic of her.  "Something's happened."

Franky's heart sank.  "What?" She asked. 

"I got an email today," she began.  Franky braced herself.  "I'm being investigated by the Board," she said with a sigh.

"What Board?" Franky asked blankly.  It wasn’t what she had been expecting Bridget to say. 

"The Psychology Board of Australia," Bridget explained.  "It is responsible for the regulation of psychologists including investigating complaints by the public about the conduct or performance of psychologists."

"Someone has complained about you?"

Bridget nodded.  "I have an opportunity to put my version to the Board next week."  It was what Bridget hadn't said that was important though.

Franky remembered their conversation all those weeks ago.  "It's because of me, right?" She said, "Because we're together." 

Bridget gave her a resigned smile.  "I'm not supposed to engage in a sexual relationship with a former client, not for at least two years, and even then it has to be reviewed."  She watched Franky digest this.

"What will happen to you?" Franky asked at last.

"Well, depending on their findings I'll either be de-registered, reprimanded, or they'll find there's no case to answer."  Bridget raised her glass to toast her options.

"They can sack you?"  Franky exclaimed, "Just like that?"

"Yes," Bridget admitted.

"Who made the complaint?"  Franky asked.  Her head was spinning.

"They don't say but I can guess," Bridget told her grimly.  Franky looked blank.  "Erica Davidson."

Franky shook her head.  "It wasn't Erica," she refuted immediately, with certainty.  "It's one of those fuckers in Wentworth."

"Why are you so sure it's not Erica Davidson?" Bridget asked. 

"Because she wouldn't," Franky said definitively.  “Why are you so sure it is?”

"She pretty much accused me of it on Friday night.” Bridget remembered the conversation.  It had left a sour taste in her mouth.  “What is stopping her from making it official?"

Franky was silent.  It was true Erica had sold her out before for her own purposes.  She wondered as she listened to Bridget explain the procedures in place to regulate her profession.  It all sounded ridiculous to her.  It made her sound like some mental case incapable of making her own decisions. 

“So what happens at this hearing?”  She asked at last.  “We get to tell them it’s all bullshit, right?”

“You don’t get to go, only me,” Bridget clarified.  She sounded apologetic.

Franky closed her eyes.  She wanted to sleep.  Fatigue had set in and her mind and her body couldn’t deal with anymore setbacks.  She felt so tired.  How had things gotten so fucked up?  Bridget didn’t deserve this.  She felt responsible.  Bridget’s hand slid over her own and she opened her eyes.  Her eyes reflected the sadness in her heart.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  While Franky had been messing around with Erica, Bridget had been risking her career to be with her.

“For what?” Bridget asked softly.  Her fingers tightened squeezing Franky’s hand.  She saw the unnatural brightness in those green eyes.

Franky couldn’t say it.  Her throat was too choked with emotion.  A tear escaped and took a crooked path down her cheek. 

“I’m not sorry,” Bridget told her with certainty.  She wiped the tear away.  “Okay?”  She smiled.

“You will be,” Franky said softly, with certainty.  She knew it was only a matter of time before that video clip found its way to her girlfriend.

Their meals arrived but Franky had lost her appetite.  She played with her food and drank most of the wine.

“I should move out,” she said into the silence that had built up between them.     

Bridget looked up from her penne arrabiata.  “What?  No,” she exclaimed.  She put down her fork.  “You’re not moving out,” she said emphatically. 

“How are you going to front that hearing and deny that charge if I’m living at your house?” Franky pointed out with a frown.

Bridget looked at her.  She could sense Franky’s confusion.  “I’m not going to deny it,” she said simply.

And there it was, the difference between Bridget and everyone else Franky had ever met.  She would stand firm in spite of the consequences of that decision.  She would lose her job rather than walk away.

“It’s not your decision,” Franky told her. 

"Franky, your moving out won't change anything," Bridget told her.

"You don't know that," Franky pointed out.  "It might."

"I get what you're trying to do," Bridget said after a moment.  "And I appreciate it."  She sighed.

"I'm not going to let you lose your job twice because of me," Franky said.  She sounded so determined not to be swayed.  "And don't tell me you wouldn't do the same because you have, you did, when you left Wentworth."  She sat back and glared at Bridget, daring her to deny it.

"Yes," Bridget agreed reluctantly, "but it's not the same.  It wasn't the same.  I walked away to protect you."

"And that's exactly what I'm doing," Franky said with finality.  She picked up her fork and began eating.  Bridget watched her.

“I’m not going to deny our relationship, Franky,” she repeated after a moment, just as firmly.  “I don’t care if I lose my job, I’ll do something else.”

“I’m not worth it,” Franky’s eyes pleaded with Bridget. 

“Yes, you are,” Bridget said.  She knew Franky’s self-doubt stemmed from years of being told she wasn’t worthy, from being abandoned, from being abused. 

Bridget’s phone rang.  She saw it was Dr Williamson from the psychiatric hospital.  “She’s changed her mind,” he told her when she answered.  “She wants to see you.”

Joan Ferguson was staring at Bridget, her expression disdainful.  The psychologist repeated her question and waited.  “I haven’t time to waste in idle chit-chat,” the ex-governor said eventually.  “Do you really think I was talking to you for your stimulating conversation, Miss Westfall?”  She smiled her supercilious smile.  The smile faded.  “You remind of a duck,” she said suddenly.

“A duck?” Bridget repeated with surprise.  She laughed quickly at the ridiculousness of the statement.

“Yes,” the ex-governor confirmed.  “You look so calm on the surface,” she reflected, “and yet I bet underneath you are paddling like fury, aren’t you?” She smiled.  “I just can’t tell if you are paddling like mad towards the abyss or away from it.  Do _you_ know?”  She asked in a curious tone.

For a split second Bridget wondered.  Even though she knew this was one of Ferguson’s little games.  To make her audience doubt themselves, and think Joan Ferguson knew something more than they did.  The psychologist shook herself mentally. 

“Have they set a trial date yet?” Bridget asked coolly to regain the upper hand.

“Oh, but you haven’t you heard, Miss Westfall, the prosecution requested an adjournment.”  She smiled.  “Your fall from grace has been a setback for them.”

“My fall from grace?” Bridget stared at her. 

“I’m referring to your dirty little affair with Franky Doyle.  You must have realised it would get out eventually.”  She took great delight in the words and their implication.

“It was you,” Bridget said with sudden understanding.  “You made the complaint to the Board, to stop my testimony from being used in the case against you.”

“Don’t think for a moment you are a match for me, you and your murdering girlfriend,” the ex-governor hissed at her with indignation.  Bridget heard the spite dripping like venom from her lips.  “How dare you presume you can outwit me.”  Her voice never went above a whisper.  “I will destroy you, professionally and personally.”  She stood up suddenly, an imposing, impressive figure. 

Bridget watched her performance with reluctant admiration.  Even in her dying throes this woman was daunting.  “And yet here I am,” Bridget said calmly, “which tells me you must want my help.”

“Oh I saw right through your little attempt to intrigue me using Vera Bennett as bait,” she said immediately and with scorn.  “I have more than enough on that pathetic shell of a woman to crush her.”  Joan Ferguson’s palm landed on the table before her.  She sat down again and her hands smoothed her hair.  “You can deliver a message to her.”

“I thought your niece did your deliveries,” she answered swiftly and had the satisfaction of seeing surprise flash across Ferguson’s face.  Franky had filled her in before she had left the restaurant on Sarah’s connection with Ferguson.  “I wonder what secrets she has on you, and how willing she will be to offer them up with the right person persuading her.”  Bridget smiled.  “I’m going to visit her in the hospital later.”

Ferguson heard the threat in her words.  “You over-rate your abilities, Miss Westfall,” she smiled tightly, “if you think you’re the right person.”

“Really?”  Bridget raised her eyebrows.  “Who do you think convinced Vera of your role in Jodie’s injuries?”  She stood up.  “Tell Sarah to withdraw her statement to the police.”

Bridget walked towards the door.  For a moment she thought she would have the last word.  “Don’t be taken for a fool, Miss Westfall, Franky Doyle has been fucking someone else behind your back.” 

Franky woke suddenly from a deep sleep.  It was still dark.  She hadn’t heard Bridget come home from her visit with Ferguson she had been so wasted.  She looked at her phone and saw it was 5.45am.  She rolled over and saw Bridget wasn’t there.

She got up and wandered into the kitchen.  Bridget was drinking tea.  “Couldn’t sleep?” Franky asked sympathetically.  She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the sink.  “How’d it go with Ferguson?”  She drank her water.  She wasn’t prepared for what came next.

“Are you sleeping with Erica Davidson?” Bridget asked directly.  She had thought about Ferguson’s words all night.  They had played on her mind until she saw significance in every look and gesture between Franky and Erica that night of the dinner.   

Franky put down the water.  “No,” she said immediately.  She saw Bridget was watching her closely.  Those clear blue eyes looking for honesty not in her words but in her expression.   She wouldn’t lie to Bridget even in omission.  “But I’ve thought about it,” she admitted. "I kissed her again."

“We’ve been here before, Franky,” Bridget said plainly.  “I told you then what I expected. I thought I was clear, I thought you understood.”

“You were, I did,” Franky acknowledged. 

“So you understand when I tell you that I can’t do this,” Bridget asked.  Franky stared at her. She didn't like where the conversation was headed. Bridget was waiting. At last Franky gave a brief nod.  “I can support you, and I will, but I cannot be in a relationship with you,”  she continued. Bridget wasn’t one of those people who believed in pulling the Band-Aid off slowly.  She would rip it off and take the pain in one hit.

Franky absorbed her words and their implications.  She realised suddenly it didn’t matter that she hadn’t acted on her desire.  The law had taught her you could always take refuge in the grey even when the black and white pointed clearly to something else.  Franky loved that about it.  There was no fine line in a relationship built on trust and respect though.  Semantics didn’t matter. 

She felt miserable but she had no excuses to offer.  Her choices had got them here, lost and alone, and without hope. 


	13. We All Stumble

Franky woke up suddenly.  There was a pair of cold aqua eyes in a freckled face staring at her.  For a moment she thought she was back in prison and some junkie had stolen into her cell desperate for a hit.  Then she remembered.  She sat up.

“What time is it?” she asked rubbing her neck.  The pillows were better in prison, she thought, and at least she had a bed. 

“You’re on my Bronte,” the girl said in an accusing tone.

“Huh?” Franky responded.  She looked around for her phone. 

“Wuthering Heights, I left it here last night and I need it for English,” she rolled her eyes.

“Right, the book,” Franky said suddenly enlightened, “I was reading it,” she dug under the covers and produced a slightly bent paperback.  “Bit melodramatiic, isn't it?” she commented.

Jenna snatched it from her.  “How long are you going to be here?” She asked brusquely.

“You wanna get rid of me, kid?” Franky asked with a grin as she stretched.  She saw the look on her half sister's face. "I dunno," she admitted honestly.

“Great,” Jenna muttered as she went into the kitchen and Franky could hear her remonstrating with her father. 

She dropped back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling.  What the fuck was she doing?  She could be in a real bed, in a comfortable house instead of squashed into a corner of the already filled to capacity home, where she didn’t really fit in and wasn’t really wanted.  Well, her dad wanted her there, she acknowledged, and Caitlin Doyle was kind enough, the boy was a bit intrigued by her but Jenna found her presence disturbing.  Franky couldn’t blame her.  She wouldn’t have wanted to share her dad with anyone, least of all an ex-con half-sister who had turned up out of the blue. 

She thought about Bridget.  Today she would front the Psychology Board and answer for her actions.  Franky had offered to go with her, for moral support if nothing else, but Bridget had said it wasn’t necessary, that Franky should focus on her exams and not worry about her. To Franky it had felt like the door closing and the distance between them filling with polite inconsequence.

She found her phone.  She looked for a message from Bridget but there wasn't one. Why would there be? Even Bridget's patience was finite. She got up and wandered into the kitchen to get a glass of water.  Her dad smiled at her.

“Morning,” he said, “Can I get you anything?” He asked, a little hopefully.  Franky saw Jenna roll her eyes. 

“Nah,” Franky said as she watched Jenna pick up her bag and go out the door muttering a ‘see ya’ as she went.

“Don’t mind her,” Alan Doyle said, following her eyes, “she’ll get used to you soon enough.” 

Franky wondered about that.  “Well, I won’t be here long,” she told him, “Just until I sort something out.”

“You stay as long as you want,” he replied.  “I know it’s not a great set-up,” he acknowledged.  “But once the weather warms up you can move onto the back verandah.” 

The back verandah was like a sleep out.  It was an enclosed deck which had a divan and a couple of cane chairs.  Alan Doyle used it when the Melbourne over-night temperatures soared and the only place comfortable enough to sleep was outside unless you had the luxury of air-conditioning.  The flyscreen netting kept the mosquitos out but let in any cool night air on offer.  He had built it himself and was proud of it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he added a little gruffly.

Franky thought about why she was here.  She had been stunned by Bridget’s uncompromising decision.  It had been like a slap in the face from a person she had never expected to react like that.  It had been harsh and gave Franky no room to manoeuvre.  And it was cold.  Bridget was not cold, she was warm and giving, and Franky couldn’t reconcile the woman she knew with the coldness of that moment.  And yet, hadn’t Bridget been upfront about her expectations after the first kiss and hadn’t Franky known the cost of that confession when she had made it? 

She and her dad had been meeting regularly in an attempt to establish some kind of relationship.  Bridget had suggested it and Franky had taken her advice.  They had been meeting once or twice a week.  It was during one of these that Alan Doyle discovered his daughter’s changed circumstances.

He had brought two beers back to the table and slid one of them in front of Franky.  His daughter had been non-communicative that day and he had wondered about it.  Now she fiddled with the glass instead of drinking.  “What is it?” he had finally asked.  Her answer had surprised him.

“I get it,” Franky had said, speaking directly to her glass.  “Why you wanted another family after you left us.”  She looked at him.  “I would have wanted that too,” she had admitted.  For Franky it was a significant concession and her father had recognised it as such.  “It sucks being on your own.”

Alan Doyle had nodded.  He had drunk some beer.  He had looked at her.  “You’re not on your own now though,” he had said at last.  “You have your girlfriend.”

“We split,” Franky had said briefly.

“When?” He had been curious but cautious.  Franky hadn’t talked much about her relationship.

“Yesterday,” and a small sigh had escaped before she could stop it.   

Alan Doyle had rubbed his chin.  “You’ll be needing a place to stay then,” he had said practically.  And he wouldn’t take no for an answer despite the impracticalities of it.  Franky gave in because it was still a better option than picking up some girl in a club for a place to crash.  She had realised suddenly how isolated she was without Bridget.  She had stayed away from her previous friends once she was released because she had wanted to start again.  The people she still knew from her previous life were dealing and she wanted to avoid getting dragged into that scene.  There was Erica, she acknowledged, but her life was complicated enough without adding to it.  Her real friends were inside Wentworth and that was the truth of it.  Bridget had wanted her to stay at least until some alternative arrangements could be made.  She had suggested her artist friend Richard, who had a bedsit attached to his studio but Franky didn’t want to feel obliged to strangers.  So here she was, in this cramped little house, trying to study for exams and get on with her life. It wasn't exactly how she had pictured things in those first few carefree weeks after getting out.

It was 9.57am.  Bridget was in a wide inviting corridor on a small vinyl couch waiting to be called into the hearing.  She had no idea what to expect.  She had never been summoned like this before and she didn’t know anyone else who had.  She had prepared a statement but she didn’t know whether she would be given an opportunity to speak freely.  She was very much aware that this day could mark the end of her career. 

She thought about Franky.  Bridget could see Franky was like a hare in the headlights, unable to move forward from the point she was at.  It was clear from her comments that she hadn’t resolved anything in relation to Erica Davidson and Bridget knew the hurt would only get worse.  Franky would give into it eventually or always wonder about it.  So she had cut the rope, brutally, and it almost broke her heart to see the look on Franky’s face when she said the words.

It felt like Ferguson had lined up her chess pieces and her next move or the one after would be checkmate.  Franky, Bridget, maybe even Vera would all be casualties of the game.  There was one move Bridget could see that might turn the game in their favour but she wasn’t sure she had enough time to play it. 

A door along the corridor opened and her name was called.

Erica was thinking about Franky. Her words had sounded so final.  Now it’s too late she’d said but Erica didn’t believe it was ever too late for anything.  Her father had taught her that.  He had spent his life turning failure into success, impossibilities into possibilities, and certainties into something else entirely.  So Franky saying so definitively that it was too late just made Erica all the more determined to show her just how wrong she was.  The phone call she had just taken provided her with an excuse to contact Franky. She had given Detective McNally her business card the night of Franky’s interview and finally she had called.

Joan Ferguson was staring at the wall.  Her body was perfectly still.  Her mind was busy.  She was thinking about betrayal.

Franky listened to Bridget's number ringing out. It meant one of two things. Bridget wasn't taking her calls or she was still in the hearing. Franky glanced at the clock which was hanging on the wall near the kitchenette. It was just past 11.30. She saw Laura Prescott entering the office. Franky eyed her with intent. Of all the lawyers at legal aid, Laura seemed the most progressive and willing to take risks. She was only a few years older than Franky but already had a reputation in the office of being extremely capable. She was going to be Boomer's new lawyer, Franky decided instantly, and she slid off her chair and made a beeline for the redhead.

Bridget could feel her phone vibrating in her jacket pocket. She ignored it and focussed her attention on the next question. "Are you still in a relationship with this woman?"

"No," Bridget admitted. She watched as the panel of three psychologists all made a note on their respective papers.

"And who ended it?"

"I did," Bridget stated clearly.

"Why?"

Bridget paused. She had answered all their questions to date but there was a line. "That's between me and Franky," she said at last.

The woman looked over her glasses. "You remember you are under investigation, Miss Westfall, and your job is on the line?"

"Yes," she confirmed.

"So it would be in your best interests to cooperate," she pointed out.

"Even so, some things are private and I'm not prepared to reveal them." She stated unequivocally.

Professor Vivian Farrer gave her a considered look. "Have you had any contact with her since then?"

"No." It was the truth but not the whole truth. She had called Franky, worried about her, but the calls hadn't been answered. After a few days she stopped calling.

Erica saw Franky talking to a woman outside the legal aid office.  She wasn’t dressed in her usual jeans but in a pair of tight fitting black pants and tailored shirt. She was pulling on a jacket as Erica watched. She looked good in the business attire.  Erica suddenly glimpsed the lawyer-to-be in her.  She would be just as dangerous in the legal sphere as her charm and wit combined with that razor sharp mind.

Erica leant on the horn and had the satisfaction of seeing Franky look away from the woman and towards her.  She hoped for a smile.  Franky just gave a quick nod in recognition though and turned back to her companion.  The discussion ended and Franky rewarded the woman with a smile.

“Who’s your friend?” Erica asked as Franky slid into the passenger seat and put on her seatbelt.  She couldn't help being curious.

“Boomer’s new lawyer,” Franky told her.  “We've been talking strategy,” she added in an off-hand manner. Laura Prescott had been intrigued by Franky's request.  She had agreed to take the case on one condition, that Franky assist with the preparation. "Never thought you'd ask," Franky had replied with a grin. It was the opportunity she had been waiting for.

“What did the police say?”  She asked as Erica pulled into the traffic. Franky had surprised Erica by suggesting they meet. Erica hadn't been able to get away though, and it was just past 8pm when Erica had pulled into the loading zone. 

“They're dropping the investigation,” Erica told her immediately.

Franky was relieved.  “Why?”

“Sarah Carson withdrew her statement,” Erica explained.

“Just like that?” Franky stated disbelievingly.

"She says she remembers now what happened.” The detective had offered more than Erica had been expecting from her. 

“That you were trying to stop her from stepping back rather than pushing her." She didn't tell Franky that the police officer had gone on to say it sounded like bullshit to her. Fortunately the police were under resourced and didn't have the time to pursue it, "luckily for your client, Miss Davidson,” the Detective had added.

There was something fishy about it, Erica had to admit, it all seemed a little too convenient.  Why would this girl, so adamant in the moment, completely change her mind? 

“Did you talk her?” Erica asked curiously.

“You think I threatened her?”  Franky asked in disbelief.

“Did you?” Erica hadn't thought that until just now when Franky made it a possibility.  She thought about her experiences at Wentworth.  “I know what went on in prison, Franky.  Women changed their stories when they were intimidated by other prisoners.”

“I didn’t go anywhere near her,” Franky retorted, annoyed even though she had considered the idea herself.  “For fuck’s sake,” she added in an undertone.  She felt like she was back in the governor’s office defending herself against a charge.  She crossed her arms against her chest.  “What’s the point,” she muttered.

“What do you mean?” Erica asked, her eyes still on the road, but her tone was cautious. The younger woman was silent, staring ahead.  Erica frowned.  She felt a wall.  She knew she had put it there with her question.

“Forget it,” Franky said. 

“Franky,” Erica sighed.  “It was a reasonable question,” she justified herself.  The silence which greeted her told her something else.  She pulled into a bus lane and stopped the car. She watched the passing pedestrians briefly and envied them their simple moment.  Theirs was not a moment of difficult conversations. 

“You’re always going to think of me as that prisoner, Erica,” Franky said into the silence.  “Your question,” Franky looked at her then and those green eyes flashed with accusation, “proves that.” Then she opened the car door and got out.

When two lawyers go to war, Erica thought as she watched Franky walk away, it would be a battle of words laced with evidence and proof and the reasonableness test. She sent Franky a text. I don't think that, it said.

Franky found a bar that was loud and crowded. The music drowned out her thoughts and made conversation impossible. She didn't want to talk or think. Franky ordered vodka shots in rapid succession, tilting back her head to toss them down.

"Wanna dance?" She had leant in so suddenly Franky hadn't known what to expect. She felt warm breath against her ear and the blonde's hand on her arm. Franky needed to release the tension that had been building. She hadn't been running that week because her routine had been thrown out and she could feel an angry energy churning inside her. Music had the power to cleanse the chaos from her mind. She rewarded the woman with a smile and wasted no time easing them both through the crowd.

Bodies were jammed together, gyrating, sweating, touching as the beat churned around them, dictating the dance and sweeping the dancers into a frenzy of movement. The blonde stumbled, drunk maybe, and landed roughly against Franky whose arms held her, steadying her. Franky felt the woman's heart racing against her chest. "You smell nice," she heard the blonde whisper against her ear. They separated as quickly as they had come together. The dance continuing but the mood shifting. Franky didn't know why she was there.

It was late when Erica heard her doorbell in a long, persistent ring followed by a few sharp, snappy ones which demanded her attention. She opened the door to find Franky leaning against the door frame, one hand on her button. Of course it would be Franky, she thought, none of her friends rang her bell like that. She crossed her arms.

"What do you think then?" Franky asked. She noticed Erica's attire. "What time is it?" She asked curiously.

"Almost midnight," Erica told her. She had caught the look Franky had given her silk robe.

"So are you going to let me in?" Franky asked.

"Are you going to stop ringing my bell?" Erica countered with.

"Probably not," Franky grinned and gave the bell another annoying ring. Erica stood aside in surrender.

"What do you think then?" Franky repeated her first question.

Erica studied her. She suspected Franky was drunk but it was hard to tell. "I don’t see you as the person you were," she said seriously. "I see you as the person you’re going to be." She sighed.  "I asked that question because I’m a lawyer and Sarah’s retraction is very convenient.  You must see that it seems suspicious.”  Franky did see that.  “You are the one who gains the most from her withdrawing her statement.  I asked you if you’d seen her because if anyone could convince someone to do something they had no intention of doing, it’s you.  I’m sure you used intimidation in prison but you used charm just as effectively.”  She thought about her reluctant agreement to tutor Franky with her university studies.  “You charmed me all the time,” she conceded.

A smile hovered. "Yeah?" Franky responded, distracted by the admission.

Erica saw the pleased look mixed with curiosity and took it as a good sign. "You know you did," she added with a slight smile.

Franky looked around. The apartment looked just as immaculate as the last time she was there.

"You got anything to eat?" She asked, not hopeful.

Erica smiled. "I'm sure there's something," she said vaguely.

She found blue cheese, brie, crackers and an apple. She poured them both red wine and took everything to the coffee table on a stylish wooden board.

She fed Franky slices of apple and crackers generously covered in cheese. She drank red wine and wondered.

"What's happened?" She asked eventually. It was obvious from the fact Franky was on her sofa and not at home that something was wrong. Franky shrugged, putting another cracker in her mouth. "Did you and Bridget have a fight?" She persisted.

"She dumped me," Franky said briefly.

Erica absorbed that and all its implications. She took a guess. "Did she see that YouTube clip?"

"Nope," Franky said without looking up from slicing more apple. "She saw it in her spam folder and deleted it without even opening it." Franky had asked Bridget if that had been what triggered her question about Erica. She looked up. "How's that for fucking irony?"

Erica's phone began ringing. She glanced at it. "Where are you staying?" She asked, rejecting the call and switching it to silent.

"My dad's place," Franky told her. She got up and brought the wine bottle over to the coffee table, sitting down next to Erica and pouring them both another glass.

"How's that going?" Erica asked curiously.

Franky told her about Jenna. "She thinks I'm going to steal her dad from her," she finished with. "Which is also kinda ironic," she said with a short laugh.

"I'm glad you're giving your dad a chance," Erica told her seriously.

"Why?" Franky frowned, her green eyes questioning.

Erica shifted slightly under the intense gaze. "Because everyone deserves one, Franky," she said. She put down her wine.

Franky thought about Ferguson. "Not everyone," she said without doubt.

Erica read something into those words. "What about me?" She asked. "Do I?" Erica's phone began vibrating. Franky looked at it and Erica followed her gaze. "It's the Minister." She said in explanation.

Franky raised her eyebrows. "Better get it then," she replied.

Erica didn't get it though. She left it vibrating. Her eyes held Franky's and for a moment everything stopped until those green eyes blinked. "I know I made mistakes," Erica said sincerely. She thought about her time in Wentworth.  It brought out the worst in a person.  She hadn’t belonged there.  Her attitude, her clothes, her private school education all clashed with the culture of Wentworth.  Her desire to change the lives of these individuals had drawn her there and her ambition had kept her there.  She had fought against the misogyny and the prejudice almost every day though.  Franky had been the sweetener in a bitter tasting world. "I wish now I'd been braver, better than I was but I was so out of my depth I was drowning in there." Erica paused. Looking back she realised that in her own way she had been just as much of a prisoner as Franky. "It wasn't easy."

"That's a cop out, Erica," Franky said immediately, dismissively.

"Okay," Erica acknowledged. "The pressure got to me and I stumbled," she admitted. "We all stumble, Franky." She paused, letting the truth of her last statement settle into the silence between them.

"What do you want from me?" Franky asked suddenly, sounding impatient, fed up. "You want me to fuck you, is that it?"

Erica's mind baulked at the plain speaking even as her body responded to the primal nature of Franky's words. It was that kind of talk which had her all hot and bothered at Wentworth. "Franky, it wasn't me turning up at midnight, making a racket, remember?" She pointed out. "I could just as easily ask why are you here."

Franky looked at her. Those eyes dark and unreadable, her expression so serious that Erica feared the worst. She waited, resisting the urge to fill the silence. At last Franky spoke. "Because I can't get you out of my head," she confessed in a whisper.

Erica let go of the breath she'd been holding. She leant forward, lips parted in a slight smile. "Then don't try," she murmured. Her lips brushed Franky's, soft, uncertain then she pulled away, hesitating.

Franky didn't hesitate, she surrendered to the moment, to her desire, to her need to feel wanted. She slid her hand through Erica's hair, holding her head, kissing her. She heard a delightful little moan escape from Erica. It was all the encouragement she needed.

Franky's free hand placed her wine glass blindly on the coffee table. "Don't stop," Erica gasped against her mouth. Franky wasn't sure if it was a general request or specific to her free hand now sliding between them and untying Erica's robe. It didn't matter. Franky had no intention of stopping.

Underneath the robe Erica was wearing a silk cami and sexy silk underwear. Franky caressed her breasts through the silk top until her nipples were tight buds. She sat up, putting Erica's arms above her head. She slid the top over her blonde head and gazed at the fair skin in admiration. There were no scars, no tattoos, just soft smooth unblemished ivory. Franky had a sudden desire to mark it. Her warm mouth took one pale pink nipple and her hand took the other, teasing them until she heard Erica gasp. She was so turned on by that sound. Her mouth moved lower. Erica anticipated her, thrusting her hips upward. There wasn't enough room on the sofa. Franky moved them both onto the floor, bumping the coffee table in the process. She heard the wine glasses break."Oh fuck," she said with a laugh in her voice.

Erica wasn't bothered about the wine glasses. "Franky," she pleaded. "Don't stop."

"You wanna fuck on a bed of broken glass?" Franky asked incredulously.

Erica didn't really care where and she said so. She pulled Franky to her, untucking her shirt and ripping the buttons as she took it off.

"Fuck, who knew you'd be so feisty," Franky said with a grin. She pinned Erica's hands and leant over her, enjoying the power she had.

"Who knew you'd be such a wimp," Erica retorted quickly. Her eyes glazed with passion. She struggled against Franky's strength even though she knew it was futile.

Franky gave a shout of genuine laughter. "I'm gonna make you take that back," she said.

"How are you going to do that?" Erica asked then promptly gasped as Franky pulled her hips up and stripped her underwear away.

"You'll see," Franky murmured, suddenly serious. She slid her fingers down Erica's torso. "I used to think about you," Franky put her mouth to Erica's ear. "In my cell. I'd get so turned on just by thinking about you. I'd think about fucking you, like this," Erica gasped as Franky's fingers acted out her words. "I wondered what you'd like." Franky found a rhythm Erica seemed to like. Her breath came in ragged gasps and she thrust against Franky's fingers. There was a shard of glass digging into her right shoulder with each thrust. The pain and the pleasure Franky evoked in her contrasted so vividly. "You're so fucking sexy." Franky encouraged her. "I'd think about you naked in my cell, my mouth on you, my tongue inside you."  
Erica was no longer in control of anything. Her body had surrendered to Franky's talk and touch. "I can't-" she gasped as she climaxed in delicious flooding waves.

Bridget's phone was ringing. It woke her with a start. It was Vera. "Are you sure?" She asked in response to Vera's news, sitting up and switching on the lamp by her bed. It wasn't the kind of news she wanted to hear in the dark.

"Channing just called me," the Governor told her. "Any idea what she's up to?"

"No," Bridget wondered. "Maybe," she added.

"Well, it won't do her case any good," Vera said.

"Maybe she doesn't care," Bridget replied. She thought about their last encounter, looking for clues in the ex-governor's words and her responses. "Be careful," she said suddenly. "Ferguson holds grudges."

After finishing her call with Vera Bridget tried to call Franky but the call went straight through to voicemail. Next she put a call into Dr Williamson at the psychiatric institution but it seemed no one was taking her calls.

She sent Franky a text. Ferguson has escaped, it read.

She stared at the wall, a feeling of dread taking hold. She was sure Ferguson wasn't fleeing. She had escaped with a very clear objective in mind. She didn't like it that she had no idea where Franky was and Joan Ferguson was unaccounted for.

Ferguson was like the huntsman that sat high up in the corner of the bathroom wall. You hated it. You could always see it out of the corner of your eye, large, menacing, then just when you had accustomed yourself to its disturbing presence, it disappeared. And suddenly that was worse because you knew it was still there but you had no idea where. Only Ferguson was much more dangerous than some spider.


	14. The Fox and the Rabbit

"Is that your phone?" Franky asked, distracted by the constant buzzing sound. 

Erica stopped what she was doing, leant over Franky's naked body, reached for her phone and threw it across the room. "Not anymore," she stated. She returned to her previous occupation.

"Might be important," Franky suggested. "They're fucking persistent." Her voice went up slightly at the end of the sentence. "Fuck!" She exclaimed. She looked at Erica's blonde head bent over her. 

"I'm almost there," Erica told her. Franky stared up at the ceiling and focussed in on the pain. She had learnt it was the only way to cope with it. To acknowledge it, feel it, identify the subtle shifts in its intensity, to embrace it. She heard Erica grunt with satisfaction and looked to see a bloodied shard of glass a centimetre long at the end of Erica's tweezers and a triumphant smile on Erica's face. 

"Wimp, huh?" Franky said when faced with it.

"Do you want it as a memento?"

"Nah, I'm good," Franky told her as Erica disinfected the wound on her arm and covered it with plaster. "I'll check you out now." She suggested. 

"I thought you already had," Erica said wth a slight smile. Her tone leaving Franky in no doubt about her meaning.

Franky just laughed as she inspected Erica for wounds. The worst was a cut on her right shoulder. Franky instructed her to lie flat on her stomach while she knelt next to her on the bed. She brushed Erica's blonde locks aside and checked the wound for glass. "It bled a lot so it should be clean," she said. "Got a torch?" 

"On my phone," Erica said into the doona. "If it's still working," she added.

Franky retrieved the phone from the floor. She noticed there were five missed calls from Ben Lawson. "You sure you don't want to call your boss?" She asked as she switched on the torch function and shone it into the wound.

"I want you to kiss me," Erica replied, rolling over onto her back and putting her hand behind Franky's neck urging her closer. 

Franky looked at her. Erica looked completely kissable with her blonde hair in slight disarray and an inviting smile on her lips. She leant down, giving in, and kissed her. Erica opened her mouth, her hands caressing the sides of Franky's breasts. "You'll bleed on the sheets," Franky said against her mouth, a smile in her voice. 

"Small price," Erica murmured as she continued kissing Franky. "Although," she said with consideration as she sat up forcing Franky backward. "I could always be on top." She pressed herself against Franky so their breasts touched and ran her hands down her back.

Franky felt herself slipping. It was a game. She laughed softly. "Oh no you don't," she responded as she used her strength to roll Erica over onto her stomach again. She heard Erica mutter something but didn't catch the words. She could guess though. She grinned as she satisfied herself the wound was clear of glass. After she applied antiseptic and plaster she gave Erica a playful slap on her arse. "All better," she said as she admired its shape and firmness, her hand following its contours.

Erica shifted her legs apart as she felt Franky caress her. She was amazed how little it took for Franky to arouse her. Those long slim fingers slid between her legs teasing her. "You're so wet," she heard Franky murmur. "I want to taste you."

Suddenly Franky flipped her, pushing her legs up so she could put her head between those soft thighs and her mouth on that addictive tang. Erica felt a jolt of pain as her shoulder made contact with the bed at the same time as Franky's tongue found its mark. "Oh God," she whimpered. 

Franky could feel Erica's excitement, her impatience and she slowed down the rhythm, taking her time. Prison had taught her how to appreciate anticipation. Instant gratification was overrated she had discovered. The reward improved with the wait. "Relax," she told Erica while her fingers stimulated her, "there's plenty of time." It was a luxury not always afforded to her in prison. "Just enjoy it."

She experimented with her tongue and her fingers teasing Erica as she changed her rhythm. She grew wet as she listened to Erica's response to her efforts. "Harder," Erica demanded suddenly. Erica wanted Franky's touch to linger inside her long after they'd had sex. She wanted a physical reminder of their intimacy.

Franky slid up replacing her tongue with her fingers, fucking her at a frenetic pace. "I want you to come for me," she told her. Erica's response was incoherent. She was so close. Franky took one engorged nipple into her mouth and flicked it with her tongue as she found Erica's G spot with her fingers. It was enough.

Franky watched her in the throes of ecstasy and marvelled at her abandonment. Always at Wentworth Erica had held back, resisting their attraction, the sexual spark between them, until that kiss. She wondered now what might have happened if she had managed to unleash Erica's passion in prison.

Bridget couldn't sleep. Instead she was trolling through all the conversations she'd ever had with Joan Ferguson looking for clues. Something that would indicate where she might have gone and to what purpose. There was always a purpose when it came to psychopaths. It may not seem so to the casual observer but Bridget knew differently.

Ferguson was a control freak in every sense. Whatever the situation she needed to control it. She liked to use her intelligence and manipulation to do that but she had proved she could be ruthless. Psychopaths could appear on the outside to be just like everyone else. They weren't. They had no moral compass and no empathy. 

It was nearly five am when fatigue overwhelmed her. She was almost asleep, perhaps she had already drifted off, when the answer came to her unexpectedly. She sat up and reached for her phone.

Franky woke to the smell of coffee. She rolled onto her back stretching out under the soft doona. She was alone. Erica's bedroom was like the rest of her apartment, Franky decided, stylish and soulless. The passionate woman she had encountered the previous evening was at odds with this room. She found herself wondering about it. Five minutes later she was still thinking about Erica. When she realised it she frowned at the ceiling. Erica was still in her head. 

She got up and padded to the door of the bedroom and looked into the open planned living area. She watched as Erica poured herself a cup of coffee and checked her phone. 

"Loo?" Franky asked with an economy of words.

Erica looked up and stared. Franky had put her arms above her head and was stretching. She was standing in her underwear and tattoos, her tanned muscles flexing into the stretch. "Erica?" She prompted.

"Down the hall, first on your right," she managed to say, her eyes dragging their way up Franky's torso, over the flat stomach, around the curve of those breasts, across the defined shoulders to Franky's grin. 

"I have it black," she was saying. "Milk on the side." Erica just continued to stare until that body with its sexy swagger had disappeared down the corridor.

In Wentworth Franky had oozed sex appeal. She had flaunted her sexuality, not just at Erica but everywhere, in her dress code, her actions and her banter. She didn't need to get her gear off to impress but now she had, Erica was reminded how quickly her fortunes had turned when it came to Franky. It seemed a little surreal she even had the chance to admire that body in all its glory. 

When she reappeared, Erica had collected herself. She poured Franky a coffee, placing it on the bench beside her. 

Franky found her clothes and pulled them on. She noticed Erica had cleaned up the broken glass and wine from the accident the night before. "What do you reckon?" Franky asked. She had attempted to button up her shirt. "Think anyone will notice?"

Franky's red bra was on display where the buttons were missing. Her tattoo was clearly visible too. Erica's lips had traced that tattoo the previous night on their way down Franky's torso. "Erica?" Franky said drily and Erica realised she'd been staring. 

"I'll get you something," Erica offered but didn't move. Her eyes hadn't shifted either and there was a look in them that Franky immediately recognised. 

Before either could move, Erica's phone rang. She glanced at the display and answered it giving Franky an apologetic smile. "Ben," she said in a resigned voice.

Franky collected her coffee from the bench and inhaled. She could hear the Minister's tone from where she stood. It was clear he wasn't happy about something. Erica was smart as well as sexy. Surely she could have any job she wanted and one where she didn't have to tolerate the kind of bullshit attitude Ben Lawson was currently dishing out. She wondered why Erica put up with it. 

"I have to go into work," Erica said as she put down the phone.

"It's Saturday," Franky pointed out. 

"Joan Ferguson walked out of the Thomas Embling Hospital last night."

Franky had been in the process of drinking her coffee. She put down her cup. "What?" 

"Out the front gates from all accounts," Erica was saying in disbelief as Franky searched for her phone. "The Minister has a press conference at 10."

Franky found her phone where it had slipped down the side of the couch. The battery had died. Great! "Can I borrow your phone?" She asked Erica quickly then realised she didn't know Bridget's number. "Do you have a Samsung charger," she asked hopefully.

"iPhone," Erica said apologetically. "What is it?" She could tell from Franky's demeanour that the news had disturbed her.

"Can you give me a lift?" Franky asked instead.

"Yes," Erica agreed, "if you tell me what's going on." 

Franky expelled her breath. "Ferguson's coming after Bridget," she said after a moment. 

"Why?" Erica asked blankly. 

"I'll tell you in the car," Franky offered. 

"You'd better," she said as she went into her bedroom. She returned a moment later with a black t-shirt which she tossed at Franky. She grabbed her keys. 

There was no one home at Bridget's house. "What do you want to do?" Erica asked when Franky returned to the car. She was still processing the tale Franky had told her about Ferguson's attempt to manipulate Bridget into testifying on her behalf. 

"Drop me at the hospital," Franky said at last. "Maybe Sarah Carson knows what the fuck Ferguson is up to."

"Do you think Bridget knows?" Erica asked as she drove. "If she's been talking to her maybe Ferguson gave an indication."

"I dunno," Franky stared out the window. Bridget hadn't told her about her last meeting with the ex-governor, she had been too busy asking Franky about Erica. Now it might be too late. She had a bad feeling in her gut.

At the hospital they were met by another brick wall. "She was checked out yesterday," the nurse told them when Franky had asked for Sarah Carson's room number.

"Do you know where she lives?" Erica asked as she watched Franky rub a hand across her brow in frustration. She just shook her head. 

Erica needed to get into the office. She thought maybe Franky was over reacting to the situation. There was no indication that Bridget Westfall was missing. The woman might just be out shopping. However, she could see Franky was genuinely concerned. "Okay," she said at last. "Maybe Bridget has left you a message," she suggested. "Come into the office with me. There is sure to be a charger there you can use to fire up your phone."

Franky couldn't see any better options. At least she could try and call Bridget once she had her phone operational. 

"About time," Ben Lawson said sourly when he saw Erica appear followed by a slim dark haired woman. "Who's she?"

"Anybody own a Samsung charger?" Erica asked generally, ignoring Ben's question and his tone. 

One of the research assistants put up his hand. Franky went over to him immediately. She heard the Minister ask Erica where the hell she had been last night and then Erica's cool response, "I'm entitled to a life, Ben." She wondered if Erica wanted to get fired. 

Franky's phone started beeping as soon as she had plugged it in and switched it on. Three messages. The first from Bridget saying Ferguson had escaped. The second from her dad asking if everything was okay. She could hear the concern in his voice. He was worried because she hadn't come home last night, he said. Franky felt a warmth spread through her. The third was from Bridget again but she had hung up before saying anything. 

Franky called Bridget. There was no answer. She left a message on her voicemail. She saw Erica approaching. "Anything?" She asked. 

"Nope," Franky told her. "And no answer on her mobile."

"It doesn't mean anything," Erica tried to reassure her. "If she's out shopping she may not hear her phone. You know how noisy it gets in the malls." She could see Franky wasn't buying it. "I have Sarah Carson's address," she said instead. "At least it's the address she is registered at on the electoral roll," she clarified.

"Great," Franky said immediately. "Let's go. Can I borrow this?" She asked the young assistant, waving the charger.

"I can't go anywhere," Erica said apologetically. "Not until after the press conference." Franky frowned and Erica could sense her frustration. "Take my car," she offered impulsively, holding out her keys and hoping Franky had a valid licence. 

Franky didn't hesitate. She took the keys and Sarah Carson's address. "Thanks," she said gratefully. 

As Erica watched her leave she couldn't help wishing they'd had more of an opportunity to talk. Before Ben had called and interrupted them, she had been going to suggest that Franky spend the day with her. Franky's focus was now back on Bridget and there was little Erica could do about it. She sighed.

When Bridget had realised Ferguson's intent she called the hospital only to be told Sarah Carson had been discharged the previous afternoon. 

She showered and dressed while considering her next move. In all likelihood Sarah had gone home. Bridget didn't know her address but she had a vague recollection of how to get there from the afternoon she had dropped Sarah home. She hoped she could remember the way. She felt responsible for Ferguson's escape and any fallout from it. She was sure it had been her words that had triggered it. Her careless threat to visit Sarah and persuade her to talk about her relationship with her aunt had been leverage to keep Franky out of prison. Now she realised she had put the girl in harm's way. 

She made a few wrong turns before coming to a halt outside the block of units on a quiet street in Frankston. Sarah's name was listed under unit 2.

She rang the bell expectantly. On the third ring she realised she wasn't going to get an answer. She stepped back and looked to the second floor. The apartment block was small with only three units, one on top of the other. The windows on the second floor must be Sarah's. The blinds were closed. There wasn't anything more she could do. Sarah wasn't there. Maybe she was too late. Ferguson had a six hour start on her after all.

In the car she tried to call Franky again. The call went straight through to voicemail. She listened to the message, she remembered Franky recording it, the smile in her voice had been because Bridget had slid her hands around her waist, surprising her. It seemed a lifetime ago. She hung up. She was staring up at the window to the second floor unit, thinking about Franky, when she saw the blind shift slightly.

The Audi pulled into a free parking spot behind Bridget's Porsche. Franky felt an enormous sense of relief. She and Bridget had drawn the same conclusion it seemed. She glanced at the car as she walked passed but it was empty. She was about to ring the bell to Sarah Carson's flat when the front door opened and a guy brushed past her and down the steps. Franky didn't hesitate, she caught the door before it latched and took the steps two at a time up to the second floor. She knocked on Sarah's door and waited. Nothing.

She tried the door handle optimistically, hopefully, and to her surprise it turned unresisting in her hand. Afterwards she wondered at her stupidity, freedom must have dumbed that sixth sense she had for trouble.

She saw Bridget first. She was seated, looking surprised but there was a hint of something else in her expression. Franky smiled at her but Bridget didn't smile. It was the last thing she remembered before someone hit her on the back of the head.

Erica sat in on the briefing from the police. Joan Ferguson had walked out of the psychiatric hospital without anyone even noticing. "How can that happen?" The Minister asked. "She must be six foot, not exactly easy to miss."

"She had help," the police commissioner told him. "The woman is very manipulative according to her psychiatrist and understands security systems better than most given her previous career. We are not dealing with the average nut case here. She is incredibly smart and very dangerous."

"So I just go out there and tell the media we have a maniac on the loose, do I?" He asked drily.

"She shouldn't be approached," the police officer replied, "you can tell them that. There is a major operation underway to track her down and anyone with information should contact crime stoppers."

"Do you have the first clue where she might be?" The Minister gave an exasperated sigh.

"We are interviewing the psychiatrist at the hospital and pursuing any leads that offers. We'll find her, Sir, it's only a matter of time," the police commissioner reassured him. It didn't fill the Minister with confidence. 

"What about her niece?" Erica asked suddenly. "Sarah Carson?" She prompted. "Have you spoken to her?" It was clear that they hadn't.

When Bridget had realised Sarah was in the unit after all, she rang Sarah's doorbell again to no avail. Her plan was to wait. Sarah had to come out eventually, she decided, and Bridget would be waiting for her. Eventually a man in running gear appeared and Bridget slipped through the front door on his exiting. She knocked on Sarah's door. 

"Sarah, it's Bridget Westfall," she announced as she waited. "You returned my gym card, remember? I gave you a lift home." She paused but heard nothing. "I need to speak to you about your aunt. The police are looking for her." Still nothing. Bridget frowned. "You might be in danger, Sarah." There was still no response from the occupant of the flat. "I'm going to call the police," Bridget said at last. "If you won't talk to me then maybe you'll talk to them." As Bridget reached for her mobile phone, the door to the flat opened. 

"I'm sorry," Bridget said immediately. Sarah's innocent brown eyes looked at her blankly. She stepped aside and the psychologist took it as an invitation to enter. "But your aunt is capable of anything." She felt her phone begin to vibrate.

"Yes indeed, Miss Westfall," Joan Ferguson said with a smile. "You'd do well to remember it." 

The door behind her closed and Sarah blocked her exit.

Bridget had always been calm under pressure and that trait didn't fail her even now. "What are you doing here, Joan?" She asked. 

"You shouldn't have interfered," Joan Ferguson told her. "Everything that happens now is your responsibility."

Bridget watched the woman carefully. She would sound reasonable, logical, considered, truthful but it would be her version of the truth, and her version of reality. She knew she couldn't trust anything she said. Psychopaths lied without hesitation or remorse. They were scarily good at it.

"It's over Joan," Bridget told her reasonably. "The police will discover your connection to Sarah and they will track you down."

Joan Ferguson smiled knowingly. "Eventually perhaps, but it will not be their first concern. Dr Williamson is cooperating I'm sure and I provided plenty of misinformation for him to feed to the police. Sit down," she said suddenly. "And give me your mobile phone."

Bridget sat down in an armchair and handed over her phone reluctantly. It was her last connection with the outside world. Was this how prisoners felt, she wondered, isolated with only their wits to keep them safe.

"Sarah," she said turning her attention to the other woman. "Let me help you." It seemed a ridiculous statement given the circumstances.

"Is Franky here?" Sarah asked. Her face was marked with healing cuts and bruises from the accident and her arm was bandaged across her chest. Bridget guessed she had broken her collarbone when she'd been hit by the car. She was leaning against the door. Bridget wondered if she was using it as a support or barring the way.

"Don't speak to her," Ferguson interrupted. Bridget wasn't sure if the instruction was being issued to her or Sarah. She heard in her tone though a tiny crack in Ferguson's controlled veneer. She watched as Joan Ferguson walked across to her niece and stroked her head. It was a gentle gesture which contrasted with the harsh words.

"What's your plan, Joan?" She asked directly. 

"'When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin', but not to help.'” Joan Ferguson said dreamily. 

Bridget knew the quote. It disturbed her more than she cared to admit. Sarah whimpered. Ferguson's gloved hands caressed the fine throat of her niece then without warning she snapped her neck.

Sarah Carson fell lifeless to the floor. Bridget stared not quite believing what she had just witnessed. Ferguson leant over her niece then dragged the body away from the door so it was leaning against the wall. 

"Why did you do that?" Bridget asked unable to keep the shock out of her voice, rattled at last.

"She was a liability," the ex-governor said without emotion. "The girl's never been right in the head. She killed her little sister you know, drowned her in the family swimming pool. I kept her secret for her. She owed me her loyalty," she sounded indignant. "When someone cannot be trusted anymore it is best to cut them loose," Ferguson said as though passing on a piece of wisdom she'd learnt over the years.

Bridget suddenly wondered if she would ever get out of this. No one knew she was there. Even when Franky listened to her messages, she wouldn't think to look for her at Sarah Carson's flat. She was witness to Ferguson's cold blooded act of murder. Physically she was no match for Ferguson. The only hope she had was to keep her talking and convince her she was better off keeping her alive. 

"I helped her get into university but she threw that away. Taking pills like they were smarties, whoring herself to men for a fix." Ferguson was attempting to make Sarah's body sit upright against the wall. "She had no self-respect. She was too easy to manipulate. We came to an arrangement. I supplied her drugs and in return -."

"She'd run favours for you, like breaking into my house," Bridget concluded, "and setting up Franky with the police." She wondered at the control Ferguson had to be able to convince Sarah to purposely get run over.

"She did that on her own," Ferguson denied her involvement. "When she was high, she had no sense of self preservation."

"But why did she blame Franky then?" Bridget was sceptical.

"She liked her." Ferguson said simply.

Bridget didn't know if anything Ferguson was saying was true. It was possible that if Sarah had developed an obsession with Franky then Franky's rejection of her could result in Sarah wanting to hurt her in some way. Equally Ferguson could be rewriting history to suit herself when Sarah wasn't around to challenge it.

Ferguson was searching the flat. Bridget wondered what she was looking for. Something that would incriminate her perhaps. She returned to Sarah's body and began checking her pockets. There was a knock at the door.

Bridget watched as the door handle turned and the door swung open. Franky appeared in the frame. She smiled at her. Bridget loved that smile. Her heart soared and sank in the same moment. Joan Ferguson was behind the door. Before Bridget could warn her, she hit Franky on the back of the head with an iron.

After the press conference Erica tried to call Franky but she didn't pick up. She could see Ben was looking for her. She saw the police commissioner leaving. She intercepted him at the door. "Did your people manage to speak to Sarah Carson?" She asked.

"Not yet," he admitted. "We are fairly certain Joan Ferguson is heading interstate. She told her psychiatrist that she had financial interests in Queensland. We've tracked down a property developer up there who has had dealings with a Joan Ferguson. Leave this to us, Miss Davidson," he said firmly. "It's what the government pays us to do." He hadn't appreciated being shown up in front of the Minister by the young female adviser. 

"Ben wants you, Erica," one of the junior assistants told her. 

"Tell him I've left," Erica said and saw a look of surprise flash across the young woman's face. She hailed a taxi outside the Minister's offices and gave Sarah Carson's address. Franky could have at least called her, she thought, and let her know what was happening. She had her car after all.

As they approached Frankston, the taxi driver pulled over to let a fire truck with its siren blaring pass by. The taxi pulled into its slip stream and followed the truck at each turn. Once they reached the top of Sarah Carson's street the taxi stopped. "This is as far as I can go," the driver said to Erica. 

She walked down the street towards a smoking building. Her mind refusing to consider what was becoming more and more difficult to refute, that it was Sarah Carson's apartment block that the fire fighters were attempting to save. She saw her own car parked across the street. 

When Franky came round she took a deep breath and immediately choked. The air was filled with smoke. Her head was thudding. She didn't know where she was. She tried to move her hands and found they were bound tightly behind her back. Her face was on the floor. She was lying face down she realised. She struggled to get up but only got as far as her knees before she keeled over. She fell against something soft. It was a person she realised. She remembered. This was Sarah Carson's flat. She had found Bridget here. Realisation dawned. "Gidget," she said urgently, kicking at the unconscious body with her foot. "Fuck, get up Gidge!" Her eyes were stinging from the smoke. She could see the fire licking the door frame across the room. She pulled helplessly at her restraints. She couldn't get herself and an unconscious Bridget out while her hands and feet were bound. "Gidget!" she yelled frantically, kicking at the unresponsive body as hard as she could. Then the head lolled towards her and she saw the lifeless eyes of Sarah Carson. 

She felt a wave of nausea wash over her then relief. It wasn't Bridget. But where was Bridget then? Somewhere here, hidden by the smoke, unconscious, dead as well? 

She thought about where she had last seen her. If Franky was still near the door where she had entered then she guessed the direction which Bridget would be if she was still in the chair where she had seen her. She wriggled her way on her stomach. Her progress was painfully slow. She knew she was heading towards the fire instead of away from it. There was less smoke near the floor though and eventually she saw Bridget's feet. Her heart sank. Bridget's ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. Precious minutes were passing. When she reached her, Franky realised Bridget had been gagged with a tea towel and her hands also tied behind her with twine. They'd been left here to burn, she realised. Bridget had passed out. Franky felt panic mounting inside her. She couldn't do anything to save them. They would both die in this fire. It wasn't fair. She and Bridget had never got the chance to resolve things between them. She hadn't said everything she wanted to say. Those words which she had struggled to find were now suddenly clear in her mind. She wasn't ready to die. 

She left Bridget behind. There was only one way to save her and that was by saving herself. Franky began the slow journey towards the door. She never got there. The smoke overwhelmed her before she reached it. 

There were three silent bodies, and a fire burning.


	15. It's Not Over

Franky was flying, skimming the sparkling water as she followed a curved shiny fin. So close she could have reached out and touched the dolphin as it glided through the waves. They were free, unfettered, joined in a moment of exhilaration. Then suddenly the scene changed. She was sitting in an armchair, floating on a raft in the middle of a calm ocean. The raft rocked gently as the water lapped its sides. A small child lay in her lap, sleeping. The light breeze played with her hair. The child was warm in her arms. She felt at peace.

Erica's phone rang as she approached the fire truck. It was the Minister. She took the call reluctantly.

"Erica, where the fuck are you?" Ben's tone as well as his words told the story. "We are in the middle of a crisis here."

"Something's come up Ben," Erica explained. "I'm sorry but Emily and Roan are perfectly capable," she reminded him that he had a team of people working for him. "They have things covered."

"You are my chief adviser Erica," Ben pointed out, not unreasonably. "I expect you to be here. I don't care what has come up." His message was perfectly clear.

Erica watched the fire fighters efficient, professional coordination. They had cordoned off the immediate area by blocking the road with their trucks. It hadn't stopped a corral of onlookers from gathering on the footpath. She scanned the crowd but there was no sign of Franky's distinctive tattoos. She had been in that apartment building, Erica was convinced of it. She had been wrong to dismiss Franky's fears. Sarah Carson was clearly unstable.

Her ambition struggled with her need to reassure herself that Franky was safe. If she stayed, she would be fired. She knew Ben well enough to know defying him now would be career defining.

"All right," she said at last, grudgingly rather than graciously. She hated him in that moment for making her choose.

There was nothing she could do, she told herself. The fire fighters were best placed to handle the situation. She walked to her car. She had the spare key in her handbag. A fire fighter approached her.

"You can't move that vehicle," he told her.

"I need to get to work," she explained.

"We've blocked access," he said, "you'll have to use alternative transport." He began to walk away.

"Excuse me," she called after him. "Did everyone get out safely?" There were no ambulances on the scene. It occurred to her that they may have already taken the injured to hospital.

"No one inside luckily," he told her.

"Wait!" Erica stepped forward as he turned. "How do you know? Did you check?" The cool exterior was slipping and she sounded agitated.

He was patient with her. "The woman who called it in lives on the top floor. Her neighbour below is away at the moment. We checked the downstairs flat ourselves." He explained.

Erica frowned. It didn't make sense to her. If Franky wasn't inside then why was Erica's car parked outside. If she'd got out then why wasn't she in the crowd. "My friend is in there," she told him with certainty. "You need to get her out." She could see him hesitate. "I work for the Minister for Corrections," she handed him her card. "There is a woman who lives in that apartment building called Sarah Carson. She is the niece of Joan Ferguson, who escaped from a psychiatric institution last night. This fire is not a coincidence." Erica could feel her heart thudding in her chest as she waited for his response. She was prepared to argue, to force the issue by use of her Minister's name, even the threat of him if necessary. Before the words had formed in her mouth though, there was a loud crash. Both she and the fireman turned towards the burning building expecting to see the fire wreaking its final triumph. Instead they saw something quite unexpected.

Something tickled Franky's nose. She wanted desperately to itch it but she couldn't. She shifted and the tickling stopped. She drifted again into that happy cocoon where the air was clean and fresh with the tang of salt. The tickling began again, persistent, impossible to ignore. She sneezed. It jerked her awake. She was face to face with, barely a centimetre from, a pair of whiskers owned by a pair of floppy ears and an inquisitive black nose. She thought for a moment she was hallucinating then she choked on the fumes and realised her predicament was very real.

She thought she heard sirens but the noise from the fire was so loud it engulfed all other sounds as easily as the flames fed on the bricks and mortar. She couldn't risk waiting. The rabbit had given her an idea.

Erica watched surprised as an iron travelled through the air momentarily before plunging onto the concrete below.

"Second floor," she said quickly, "she's on the second floor."

"Rosco!" The fireman called to one of his colleagues. "We need to go back in."

Erica waited, hoping that the roof didn't collapse, that their path was clear of debris, that Franky would be saved. Any thought of returning to the office was gone.

The ceiling of the flat was alight and black smoke filled the room. There was zero visibility. Franky took desperate measures to free herself and draw attention to their predicament. Then she found Bridget again through feel and good luck. In minutes the ceiling would collapse. She struggled to break Bridget's bonds. Tears started to blur her vision as the twine resisted her efforts. She forced herself to slow down, to calm down, "use your brain," she muttered. She changed tack, feeling for the knots and working them quickly, the same way she had when she had freed her own ankles. It took too long but eventually she had Bridget free from the chair, lifting her with effort. She had a small frame but a dead weight is never easy to carry. Franky struggled in the direction of what she hoped was the door, away from the flames. The thought that Bridget might be dead never occurred to her. The fire fighters found them, lying together, no further than a foot from the door.

As soon as they had Franky free of the smoking building they administered pure oxygen. It was enough to revive her. She pulled off the oxygen mask immediately.

"Hey! hey," the fire fighter tried to calm her. "You've been exposed to high levels of carbon monoxide. That oxygen mask is your best friend right now, okay?"

"Bridget," Franky rasped. Her throat felt like it was on fire. She grabbed his sleeve. "She was in there too!"

"We got her," he said calmly, refitting the mask to her face. "The ambulance will be here soon." He stood up, ready to face danger again in an effort save, not people, but buildings.

Franky watched him walk away unable to comprehend the level of courage needed to do his job, to face the terror she had just faced, day in, day out. She heard a siren approaching.

She stood up suddenly, pulling off the mask again. She tried to walk but her legs didn't seem to be working. She stumbled. A wave of nausea washed over her. She bent over and put her arms on her knees waiting for it to pass. She needed to find Bridget. It was her last thought before she collapsed.

Bridget woke in a hospital bed. It was night-time. Her throat felt as though she had swallowed a thousand tiny pins. Her head thudded, seemingly swollen beyond the capacity of her skull. Her eyes focussed on the dark haired woman sitting in a chair by the bed. She was on her tablet, head down, typing quickly and with great concentration. The glow from the screen lighting her features. Bridget's eyes closed and she slept again.

She woke later to find a nurse checking the catheter in her arm. The chair beside her bed was empty. "Where's Franky?" Her voice rasped like a bad imitation of Lindsay Lohan.

"Don't talk," the nurse instructed when she noticed Bridget's blue eyes on her. "Your throat is damaged from the chemicals."

"She was sitting with me," Bridget whispered.

"There hasn't been anyone here since I came on," the nurse told her as she injected something into the IV. "I want you to try and get some more rest. This will help you sleep."

Fragments of memory were returning to Bridget. Ferguson's precise and clinical preparations. Bridget trying to talk her down. The taste of the tea towel in her mouth making her gag. Desperately holding down the bile, knowing she would choke on it. The twine digging into her wrists as she watched helplessly as Franky was trussed like a chicken for the Sunday roast. The smell of turps then smoke. Ferguson's little smile as she cast one last look at Bridget. The desperate struggle to free herself, the panic as the smoke grew thicker and the temperature began to rise. The noise of the fire as it took hold and consumed anything in its path. The feeling of wretchedness as she lost sight of Franky in the choking fumes.

Her dreams were fed by her memories and nightmares chased each other down the dark corridors of her restless mind. Their shadowy forms taking the shape of Ferguson's menacing figure. It was only the drugs that gave her peace.

"What happened?"

Louisa Kelly asked from the visitor's chair. Her expression curious, expectant, but there was a hint of something else in her intelligent eyes. Bridget saw suddenly the similarities between her friend and Franky. Both dark haired and vibrant with an urgency about them. The physical presence and overt sexuality that were quintessential Franky were missing in Louisa though. She had arrived bearing flowers and Bridget was happy to see her.

Bridget told her what she knew and watched as Louisa's eyes grew wider. "I don't know anything more," she finished with. "Where's Franky?" She asked again.

"Hasn't anyone told you?" Louisa replied, her eyes full of sympathy. "You poor thing," she added as Bridget shook her head.

"I saw her here with me," Bridget's throat struggled to give up the words.

Louisa reached out and put her hand on Bridget's arm. It was a gesture designed to comfort. "I doubt that." She said softly and Bridget's heart tightened in her chest.

"Why?" The word came out in a whisper, such a small word with such huge ramifications.

"She saved you," Louisa's eyes never wavered from her friend's face.

Bridget knew what was coming, she'd been there before, being told Riley had died in child birth had crushed her. It had taken away happiness and left a gaping hole in her heart that had been filled in by fear. A fear that it could happen again. Even though her mind knew it was irrational, her heart had held on to it. Until recently when Franky had asked her about it. Franky's gift had been hope. She had never told Franky how she'd helped, how her words had triggered something in Bridget, and freed her from fear.

She braced herself. Louisa's words washed over her as she stared into the smiling face of fear once more.

Franky had managed to free herself, Louisa told her, and had managed to free Bridget as well but then she was overcome. It was the fire fighters who had rescued them. Franky had seemed okay initially, talking to the fireman who had pulled her out but she deteriorated rapidly. Her vitals dropped and her heart stopped. Her condition was still critical.

Bridget thought about Franky lying in a hospital bed like her own, fighting for her life. She was a fighter. She had survived so much. Bridget had prepared herself to face the worst but instead hope took hold in her heart. Franky wouldn't give up.

Erica stared at the two words on the screen of her phone. She sensed the anger behind them, the finality of them. He hadn't even waited until Monday morning. They said one thing but they meant another. 'You're fired' may as well have read 'you're finished', in politics at least. Ben would see to that. Well, if the cost was her job then so be it, she thought defiantly. Even if she hadn't known it before, she knew it now, in this moment, that Franky mattered more.

She had been at the hospital since they had brought Franky in. She had used Franky's mobile to call her dad. Then called Louisa Kelly, because it turned out that Bridget Westfall had also been taken to hospital and Erica hadn't known who else to call on her behalf. It was becoming clear that something had gone very wrong inside that flat. The doctor had said Franky had marks on her wrists consistent with being bound. Sarah Carson was dead and there were rumours that it hadn't been smoke inhalation that had killed her. Erica had used her position in the Minister's office while she still could to garner information. It was only a matter of time before people stopped answering her calls. Ferguson was still missing and the leads in Queensland had not come to anything. Franky, who had some of the answers, was disturbingly silent. The oxygen mask that was strapped to her face and the catheter inserted into her arm providing fluids, and the machine monitoring her heart rate showed the seriousness of her situation. If Erica had known how the morning would play out she would never have given Franky those car keys. She wished now that she had never answered her phone, that she and Franky had stayed in bed, cocooned from the world and its demands. While her vigil continued at Franky's bedside the 'if only' thoughts rattled around inside her head, unhelpful and unrelenting. She had been hopeful at first but as the hours passed she became less and less optimistic. There had been no change. The doctors looked too serious for Erica's liking. It would be a cruel twist of fate if she had found Franky again only to lose her. She sighed, rubbing her eyes. She needed a coffee but didn't want to leave in case there was a change.

Then Franky's hand moved. Erica saw it out of the corner of her eye. She glanced up and with relief saw those green eyes blink. They held confusion, and looked red with irritation but they were undoubtedly open and taking in the surroundings. She sat forward in her chair and those eyes shifted.

"Hey," Erica said softly. She felt a wave of emotion well up inside her and tears glistened in her eyes. She had wondered if she would ever see those eyes again. She couldn't speak.

Franky shifted her hand again. There was a dressing on it where her wrist had been burnt by the flames. Erica took it in hers, careful not to touch the injured area. She felt Franky's fingers tighten in her own. "Don't think I'm going lend you my car again." It was not what she had intended to say but she was rewarded with a smile in Franky's eyes. She smiled in return. "Do you know where you are?" Franky nodded. "Do you know what happened?" Franky's eyes held a question.

"You threw an iron out the window," Erica told her. "You never do things by half, Franky Doyle," she acknowledged with a smile. "It got the immediate attention of the fire brigade I can tell you."

Franky remembered. She had grabbed the closest thing and got some decent momentum by swinging the iron with its cord. It had crashed through the thin glass and the fire had surged with the increase in oxygen available to it.

"Your wrists have burns," Erica told her. There was a question in her voice.

She had held her wrists against a smouldering rug. The pain had been excruciating and she had fought nausea and the urge to pull her hands away. Although, she had realised at some point, it was no worse than cigarette burns on her tender young skin all those years ago. Once the twine had burnt through her hands were free and she had wasted no time untying her ankles and breaking the window.

"You have carbon monoxide and cyanide poisoning from the fumes. It was touch and go for a while. They found you just in time." Erica related the facts without communicating the horror. Franky's green eyes watched her intently.

The IC nurse arrived. "Good to see you back with us, Franky," she said smiling. "I'm going to take the mask off now but I don't want you talking too much. Your throat has been damaged from the chemicals in the fumes you inhaled and it needs time to recover." She removed the oxygen mask. "Is there anything you need?"

"Bridget?" The word was a whisper. Those green eyes switched between the nurse and Erica desperate for information.

The nurse didn't know anything. "She's not in the ICU," she told them. "I'll find out for you," she offered.

Franky slept again, her body exhausted, but the hand which still rested lightly in Erica's felt warm and comforting.

"Let's give them a moment," Louisa murmured to Erica a few hours later.

Erica stared blankly at her not understanding her meaning then looked across to Franky. Bridget had been found and, on Franky's insistence, brought to the ICU. Now, she noticed, the patient didn't seem to have eyes for anyone else.

Erica had a moment of doubt. Maybe Franky's heart was already taken. She turned away and allowed Louisa to lead her out into the corridor. She let out a sigh.

"What is it?" Louisa asked. She leant casually against the wall, her expressive eyes watching Erica intently.

"Nothing," Erica lied. She took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. She thought about Franky's words to her. "She dumped me." Maybe Franky wanted another chance with Bridget. Maybe it was too late. Franky had told her countless times, in countless ways that Bridget was important to her. Erica hadn't listened. She had wanted to believe that the chemistry between them was stronger than any bond Franky may have formed with Bridget Westfall.

"Have you heard anything from your boss about the funding?" Louisa asked later, her Irish lilt suddenly breaking the silence between them. She had met with the Minister the previous week.

"No," Erica would have left it there but Louisa would find out eventually. "I'm not likely to either," she added. She saw the question in those striking eyes. "I've been fired."

"Oh," Louisa paused, "that sucks." She said with sympathy.

"That's politics," Erica replied drily. "I'm sorry but you can probably kiss goodbye any chance of getting funding from the government."

Louisa shrugged. "We'll get the money," she said with certainty and Erica believed her. "What will you do?" She asked after a moment.

"I don't know," Erica admitted. Her career choices so far hadn't worked out too well.

"Maybe that's your problem," Louisa said with insight.

"What do you mean?" She couldn't help sounding defensive.

"You are smart and ambitious, Erica, that much is obvious but what drives you?" Louisa watched her curiously. She could see the younger woman didn't know how to respond. She laughed lightly. "You'll work it out," she said with a wink. She pushed herself off the wall. "How about I buy you a coffee?"

Franky was watching Bridget. "I never got your message until it was too late." She sounded terrible but no worse than Bridget herself.

"It wasn't too late," Bridget smiled at her. She would never forget the sight of Franky walking through that door and how it made her feel.

"Too late for Sarah Carson," Franky pointed out. She and Bridget had told their respective stories.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," Bridget admitted.

"You can't believe anything Ferguson says," Franky told her. "It's all a game to her. I wouldn't bet against it being Ferguson who drowned Sarah's sister."

Bridget considered this. Franky could be right. Was that the secret Sarah was holding that Ferguson had killed to protect?

"She's so manipulative she had probably convinced Sarah that it was her," Franky was on a roll. "Made her think she was protecting her."

"It's possible she was worried that my probing would lead Sarah to the truth," Bridget agreed thoughtfully.

"There you go, Gidge!" Franky raised her hand to reinforce her point, forgetting there was a catheter attached. "Fuck!"

Bridget put her hand on Franky's arm and brought it back to the bed. "I've missed you," she said impulsively. She was smiling.

Franky was silent. Her expression serious. "How did we get here?" She asked eventually, her voice no more than a whisper, but she knew how and there was no changing that.

There were footsteps in the corridor. Bridget leaned forward. "We're both alive," she said sincerely, "because of you, and I am so thankful." Then Bridget kissed her. It was soft, it was careful but it had all the certainty that comes with surviving near death. As she pulled away she saw the surprise on Franky's face.

Bridget caressed her cheek and looked like she wanted to say something when they were interrupted. It was Detective McNally and another plain clothes officer. Franky could see from her expression that the detective was pissed off about something and she had a sneaking suspicion it might have something to do with Sarah Carson.

Bridget had straightened but stayed close to the bed. The detective gave her a cursory glance before fixing her eye firmly on Franky. "Sarah Carson is dead," she told her directly, "you know anything about that?" She asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Nope," Franky replied instantly, she seemed to have settled into her new gravelly drawl.

"I do," Bridget said quietly. Her own voice grasping at the words. She cleared her throat and promptly regretted it.

She had managed to divert attention away from Franky as had been her intention. Detective McNally shifted her gaze to the small blonde woman and there was a flash of recognition as the detective placed her. "How's that?" She asked gruffly.

"You know Detective, a little more civility wouldn't go astray," Bridget suggested. "Franky and I are the victims here," she pointed out with a smile.

As Bridget explained what she had witnessed and the detectives took notes, something dawned on Franky. It bothered her and she began fidgeting. Bridget glanced at her quickly but continued her story, answering the detective's questions openly. Occasionally the detective attempted to catch Bridget out in a seeming contradiction but it was like a child trying to outwit her parent. Bridget could outplay anyone in a game of words, Franky decided. She had proved that with Ferguson. She frowned. Ferguson's next move was unlikely to involve words.

"It's not over," Franky said with certainty.

Three pairs of eyes stared at her. The police had left some time ago and Louisa and Erica had returned to Franky's room.

"The police will pick up Ferguson," Erica said, "it's only a matter of time."

"Think about it," Franky rasped impatiently. "You are the sole witness to Sarah's murder," she reminded Bridget. "Ferguson doesn't like loose ends remember, Sarah, Simmo, Jess, and shit knows who else. She'll be back," Franky predicted ominously.

Bridget felt all eyes upon her. Franky didn't need to spell it out. Ferguson would try to silence her. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Her hand went automatically to her throat. She felt that gloved hand caressing her own neck and remembered how fragile Sarah's had seemed to be. She looked at Franky. They hadn't been a match for Ferguson. They had survived but barely. Franky looked broken, lying there with bandages on both arms and a catheter in place, her head cut open from Ferguson's well placed blow. It was only in her eyes that Bridget saw her strength. They held a certain determination and steely resolve. Bridget was suddenly reminded of a line from Invictus, 'My head is bloody but unbowed'. It seemed somehow appropriate for her young dark haired, green eyed warrior.

Franky was kept in intensive care for another two days. Bridget was released after only one. Before leaving the hospital she visited Franky.

"I've been thinking," Bridget said as she propped on the edge of Franky's bed.

Franky smiled at her. "Yeah?" She looked almost back to normal and was beginning to get frustrated with the forced inactivity.

"Ferguson almost won because I let her," Bridget began with and watched as Franky's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "She got into my head and managed to split us, divide and conquer, it is an age old strategy," she acknowledged. "I made a mistake," she admitted, "and played right into her hands." Bridget looked apologetic.

Franky was silent. Bridget was right. They had gone scrambling into that last skirmish with Ferguson. Neither of them knew what the other had been planning or doing. It was no wonder Ferguson had found it so easy to get the upper hand. They had survived by luck. Franky was well aware how close they had come to dying in that fire. If it hadn't been for that rabbit...

"What is it?" Bridget asked as she saw something flash across Franky's face.

Franky wondered suddenly what had happened to the rabbit. "I don't think you should be alone in your place," she said at last. "If Ferguson comes after you, and she will, then you are most vulnerable in your home, where you feel safe, where your guard is down."

Bridget imagined waking in the dark with a pillow pressing against her face, fighting for breath, her attempts to struggle proving futile against Ferguson's strength.

"She has my keys," she remembered. "She took them when she tied me up."

"When she comes we need to be ready," Franky warned. She didn't have the same faith as Erica in the police. Ferguson would outwit them as easily as taking candy from a baby.

"So what are you proposing Franky?" Bridget asked, feeling suddenly that she wasn't going to be left alone to deal with Ferguson. It was clear that she hadn't been the only one who'd been thinking.

Franky smiled at her. "You're gonna hate it." And she did.

Erica listened with concern when Franky explained her scheme. She didn't like any of it. Not the part where she intended to bait Ferguson and certainly not the part that involved Franky returning to Bridget's house.

"You could stay with me," Erica told her.

"I'm not going to catch Ferguson hanging out at your place," Franky pointed out.

"No, but you might just stay alive to see Christmas," Erica retorted.

Franky laughed. "You're jealous," she said knowingly. "You've finally fallen for me and you can't stand it that there's competition."

It was a little too close to the truth for Erica's liking. Franky could be disturbingly insightful about her motives, Erica remembered. "Spare me," she muttered. "I don't even see why you need to be involved."

Franky couldn't have explained it to Erica even if she'd wanted to, which she didn't. "Come here," she invited with a grin. It was clear she was feeling better.

Erica propped herself on the side of the bed unable to resist the impish gleam in Franky's eyes. Her hand rested lightly on Franky's thigh for balance. "What now?" She asked. Her breath caught suddenly when Franky's eyes dropped to her lips.

"Dunno," she murmured, her gaze so intense it made Erica's heart thud against her chest.

Erica leant in and let their lips touch briefly then pulled back slightly. Franky didn't let her get away. She put her hand behind Erica's head and kissed her thoroughly.

Footsteps approaching interrupted them. Franky hated hospitals. There was no privacy and no freedom. It reminded her of prison. Erica shifted intending to move back to the visitor's chair but Franky caught her hand holding her back.

They were laughing when Bridget entered. She stopped uncertainly by the door, her eyes appraising the situation. Erica straightened and felt Franky let go of her hand. Bridget saw the movement and realisation dawned. Her eyes sought Franky's and she saw guilt, defiance and a flash of regret pass through them.

When she spoke, it wasn't to remonstrate or even acknowledge what she had seen. She passed on the news which had brought her in to see Franky in the first place.

"Ferguson took my car when she left the flat," she said without emotion. "It's been found burnt out down a ravine on the Great Ocean Road. There was a body in it." She took a deep breath. "It's over."

 


	16. The Waiting

Erica found herself in a strange predicament. She was at a loose end. Since university she had been continually employed, occupied fully with her career, each change in occupation represented another rung on the career ladder. Now she felt somehow that the ladder had been removed and she was back at the start.

"Like a game of snakes and ladders," she told Franky with a bemused look.

"Like me," Franky said, sitting up in bed and stretching.

"No, not like you," Erica refuted. "You're at the beginning of your career, the possibilities are endless." Franky liked the sound of that.  Erica was tracing the outline of Franky's backbone with her fingers. "I seem to be just closing doors," she said with a sigh.

"Some doors shouldn't have been opened in the first place." Franky hadn't understood why Erica had adopted politics as a career choice.

Erica had to laugh. "Okay then, what should I be doing?" She asked immediately. It's easy to criticise, she thought, and everyone seemed to have an opinion these days and were all too willing to communicate it.

"You should go and work for Louisa Kelly," Franky replied immediately as though she had thought about it, as though it was obvious.

Erica's fingers paused in their caress and rested lightly against Franky's back. "What?" She asked with a surprised laugh.

"Why not?" Franky asked, dropping back onto the mattress and rolling onto her side so she could watch Erica. "She's trying to make a difference." Her green eyes studied Erica for a moment, speculative and assessing. "Isn't that what you want to do?"

It made Erica think about Louisa's question to her, which returned to her in quiet moments and remained unanswered.

Franky raised her eyebrows, waiting, until she realised Erica wasn't going to answer her. "You could make coffee," she suggested, "if you're looking for something to do." Then she grinned, leaning in for a kiss. Instead Erica threw a cushion at that laughing face.

The ensuing skirmish resulted in Franky falling off the bed and bringing Erica down with her. She recovered quickly, more used to fighting than Erica, and managed to switch their positions so she was on top. "I win," she said, out of breath but with a victor's smile, her hands and body pinning Erica to the floor.

"You better take your prize then," Erica replied. Her tone suggesting a reluctant loser but she relished Franky's power over her. She wanted to be taken.

She wondered if her eyes betrayed her thoughts because Franky seemed to anticipate her desires. She put her mouth to Erica's ear slowly, deliberately. "Oh I will," she assured her, in a tone that made Erica's skin tingle.

Only she didn't. Not then. She muttered something about having an exam that morning then wandered off to the bathroom.

Franky looked around the flat. It was certainly small but, she thought philosophically, it was bigger than a cell. It had been renovated, which was a big plus; it was furnished, also a bonus; and it was priced at mate's rates, which made it very attractive. It was a sub-let from the sister of guy Laura Prescott knew. The streetscape was uninspiring but it was light and the open planned layout gave it an airy feel. Most important though it would give Franky a real sense of independence for the first time since leaving prison. It would also give her some peace and quiet.

Franky was having trouble studying for her exams. She got no peace at her dad's place and Erica's apartment was no refuge either. It should have been except that Erica losing her job meant she was constantly around. Franky would find herself staying in bed longer because of the diverting Miss Davidson. Even when she was up and studying, Erica would distract her just by being there. She found herself observing her, law forgotten as her mind wandered down the tantalising alleyways of desire.

There was also the business of Boomer's defence. Laura was pushing her to complete the preparation work for it. The rough notes she had prepared initially didn't cut it with Laura. She was meticulous and expected Franky to be the same. Instinct and a certain flair would only take you so far, she had told Franky. "You've got those in spades," she had said seriously, "but I need you to be thorough as well, okay?" She had smiled to soften the message.

Franky liked the challenges Laura gave her. She thrived on intellectual stimulation and Laura's critical assessment of her work provided that. "Sure, I'm on it," she had replied with an easy smile, responding to both Laura's compliment and her smile. She knew she had a weakness for smart, attractive women who showed an interest in her, even straight ones, which Laura most definitely was. Not that she needed any more complications in that department, Franky acknowledged ruefully.

She didn't have much time at the office with her current workload so she had to fit Boomer's preparation in after hours along with her study. She needed her own space. It would make her feel, perhaps more than anything since leaving prison, that she was in control.

She sent a text to Laura. "I'll take it," she wrote.

She picked up the keys and locked up. As she ran down the front steps her phone beeped. It was her dad asking her to drop by. Franky hesitated. She had promised to meet Erica for a drink. She called her.

"Hi," Erica picked up immediately "How did it go?"

Franky's first exam was the one she had been expecting to be the most difficult. She had told Erica as much. "All good," she said briefly, "but, can we skip the drink?" She asked.

There was the slightest pause. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Franky assured her. "It's my dad. I haven't seen much of him lately." She offered in explanation.

Erica caught her sigh. "Okay," was all she said.

"Sorry," Franky said after a moment of silence. She knew she was piking on Erica.

Erica shelved her disappointment. "It's okay," she repeated more firmly. "Really. You should see your dad." Erica realised the importance of Franky building a relationship with her father.

"I'll come over later," Franky offered impulsively. She dismissed the voice in her head which told her she should be studying for her next exam.

There was no one home at her dad's place. Franky grabbed a few items of clean clothing and shoved them into a rucksack. She heard the front door and glanced up. It wasn't her dad though, it was Jenna who walked in. The teenager gave her a curious look then dumped her bag and wandered into the kitchen. Franky heard the fridge door open and close.

"You're studying law, right?"

Franky looked up to see Jenna leaning against the kitchen doorframe watching her. She had a coke in her hand.

"Yeah," she waited expectantly. This was the first time Jenna had initiated a conversation with her that didn't involve eye rolling.

"So you'd know about this then?" Jenna dragged a folded piece of paper from her back pocket and handed it to Franky.

Franky scanned it. She looked up. "Where'd you get this?" Jenna looked at her shoes and didn't answer. "It's a warrant," Franky told her after a moment. "It's addressed to your dad," she stopped herself from saying 'my dad'. "So how did you get it?"

"Some guy brought it to the house yesterday so I opened it," Jenna told her.

Franky looked at her. "Why?" She asked blankly. Jenna was silent. She didn't seem particularly keen to explain. Franky watched her. She looked guilty. "You may as well tell me," Franky said at last. "Shit, it can't be anything worse than I've done."

"You don't know that," Jenna told her shoes.

Franky laughed. "Trust me kid, I do." She remembered being fifteen. She had thought she was invincible, that nothing and no one mattered. No one had stopped her from making mistakes or helped once she'd made them. "Look," she said after a moment, "you showed me the letter, right? So maybe you thought I could help somehow." There was silence. Franky waited.

"I took Dad's car," Jenna mumbled. "A few months ago, joyriding, we got caught on a speed camera." She told her with reluctance.

"They would have sent a notification of the infringement through the post though," Franky said with a frown. "I mean a warrant is the last step they take, not the first."

"I hid all of them," she confessed to the non-judging shoes.

"Why didn't you just pay the fine?" Franky asked the obvious question.

"Where do you think I was I going to get $300 from?" Jenna snapped impatiently. Franky just shrugged. "What will happen?" She asked after a moment.

"Well, if your dad doesn't pay the fine and associated late fees, the State has a number of options open to them including suspending his license, deregistering his vehicle or worse case, arresting him."

Jenna ran a hand through her strawberry blonde hair. "Shit," she muttered. She looked at Franky, assessing her. "You could pay it," she suggested slyly.

Franky laughed softly and shook her head. "Nah," she said. "I haven't got that kind of cash either." She saw desperation in the girl's eyes. "Why don't you 'fess up to your dad? Just cop it sweet," she advised.

"He told me if I got into any more trouble I wouldn't be able to try out for the State Juniors," she saw the question in Franky's eyes. "Volleyball," she clarified.

Franky nodded, enlightened. She seemed to be considering something. "I could talk to your dad for you I suppose," she offered at last. "Smooth things over, no promises, but," she added with a grin, "I'm a pretty good negotiator."

"Why would you do that for me? It's not like I want you here." There it was, the truth of the matter, torn out of her by desperation.

Franky drew an exaggerated breath. "Ouch! I'm hurt!" She said in a mocking voice. She studied the teenager. She heard the hurt and anger in those words. "What else are big sisters for?" She said at last. It was the first time Franky had even acknowledged they were related.

The front door opened and Alan Doyle appeared a moment later. "Hi," he said looking between his two daughters. "Is everything okay?" He asked sensing he had interrupted something.

"All good, right?" Franky looked across at her half-sister. The teenager just walked back into the kitchen without providing a response.

Franky's dad asked if she would stay for dinner. Caitlin was making a chickpea and sweet potato curry he said. Franky smiled. "Sure," she agreed.

Later, as she hopped off the last tram and headed towards Erica's apartment she couldn't help glancing back over her shoulder. The comforting lights of the tram vanished in the other direction. It was dark on this section of road. There was no moon and the street lights were all out. There had been a thunderstorm earlier and Franky assumed the grid had been affected. She had been looking over her shoulder since Ferguson's strange disappearance. It was Wednesday, three days since Ferguson's charred remains had turned up at the bottom of a ravine. Supposedly, but Franky didn't believe it for one moment. Each day she had expected something to happen. She had been seeing Ferguson out of the corner of her eye on every street corner ever since she had been released from hospital. She was out there, watching, waiting for the moment to strike, Franky just knew it. She and Bridget had argued about it. Bridget had said there was no point Franky trying to bait a dead woman. She had been uncompromising about it. The plan they had agreed to had been shelved. Franky didn't know how much of Bridget's response had been influenced by what she had seen in that hospital room. It bothered Franky how they had parted.

She rang Erica's door bell. She heard her call out that the door was open and slipped inside shaking her head and locking the door securely when she closed it.

"You're crazy Erica," she muttered as she dumped her stuff. "You know that most home invasions happen because people fail to secure their property sufficiently," she was saying as she walked into the bedroom. She stopped short.

"I couldn't answer the door," Erica said with a smile.

There was a lamp casting a soft warm glow of light from its position in the corner of the room. Erica was lying on top of her queen size bed in black lacy lingerie. All this Franky noted as an aside. What caught her eye and held her interest was the pair of handcuffs which secured Erica's wrists to the bed head. Her eyes widened. Erica had taken her by complete surprise.

Franky loved the physical tussles they had. She had suspected that Erica only pretended she wanted to win. Franky had fought with women who staked their lives on winning and knew the difference. Erica was a fraud and Franky knew it. Franky had also realised fairly quickly that Erica liked her sex a little rough. She hadn't realised though that Erica wanted to be dominated.

"Anyone could just walk in here and take you," Franky's look was so serious. "Hold you down, hurt you. Do you want that?" She asked softly.

Erica was mesmerised. Franky's words pulled her towards those darker desires that lurked within her. She wanted to be powerless, held captive, to seek her pleasure and pain thresholds. It excited her. Somehow she felt Franky might be more open to be exploring those desires than Mark had ever been. "Yes," she whispered.

Franky moved closer to the bed. She nudged Erica's legs apart. She looked so vulnerable lying there, her pose a complete contradiction to the status she held in life. It was incredibly erotic. She climbed over her until her knees were either side of her hips, her hands either side of her arms and she was above her. Her eyes never broke contact with Erica's, the intensity of that look had Erica breathless. "We need a safe word," she said at last.

Erica licked her bottom lip. "Teal," she said, her voice slightly hoarse as she realised suddenly what was going to happen.

Franky laughed softly. "Okay," she acknowledged. Her eyes travelled down to Erica's breasts, encased in black lace. Franky could see that her nipples, not completely hidden by the lace, were hard.

"All that time you were governor, strutting around, wielding all that power, this is what you really wanted isn't it," she said, her voice husky from the smoke inhalation and desire. "To be held prisoner in one of those cells with me." Her green eyes flicked back to Erica's. "Isn't it?" She demanded roughly.

"Yes," Erica responded breathlessly.

She shifted suddenly so she could pull her top off. She saw Erica watching her. Her fingers locked around the lacy black underwear. "Desperate to cross that boundary, desperate with desire." She ripped the underwear off. "I can feel how excited you are, Miss Davidson," she whispered in her ear as her thigh pressed against the wetness. Franky had slipped completely into role play. "Anyone could walk in here," she lied. "The door's not locked." Her hand replaced her thigh. "I want to fuck you while they watch," Franky told her, her fingers filling her completely. "And you're going to scream," she told her. "I can do anything I want to you and you're going to do everything I tell you." Erica gasped as Franky lifted her arse to fuck her more deeply. She felt like she was going to burst. Erica gasped as Franky slapped her arse repeatedly, hard enough for the sting to continue to burn on her skin. She was at the edge of her tolerance levels but just then Franky began stimulating her with her thumb and pleasure began to surge through her colliding intoxicatingly with the pain. Franky had stopped talking and someone was screaming. She realised it was her. She was perched on the precipice when Franky pinched painfully on her engorged nipple and she plunged violently into pulsating pleasure. She abandoned all sense of the careful career-minded woman in that moment. It was both liberating and terrifying.

"What if I hadn't come over?" Franky asked later. She was grinning. "You would have been stuck there, handcuffed to the bed until Abiri arrived on Friday." She laughed at the thought of Erica's cleaner discovering her. "Somehow I don't reckon she would have been up for your deviant sex games." Erica looked at her, unsure suddenly. "I'm joking," Franky said immediately, interpreting the look correctly. "It's not deviant," she reassured her, suddenly serious. "It's just what you like. Everyone is different. Shit, I knew a girl once who wanted me to suck her big toe to get her off."

"And did you?" Erica asked, repulsed by the thought it.

"Yeah," she said with a grin. "Why not?" She asked with a shrug. Erica didn't have an answer.

She kissed Franky. "You were fantastic," she said, her blue eyes full of appreciation.

Franky slid her arms around her and hugged her. "You shouldn't leave your door unlocked," she said suddenly. "I know what Ferguson's capable of doing."

Erica thought Joan Ferguson would be too busy avoiding arrest to bother with her but in that moment she would have done anything for Franky. "I won't," she promised. She caressed Franky's cheek then kissed her again.

"And next time I want to put the handcuffs on you," Franky told her firmly, confirming to Erica with those words her complete acceptance of the night's activities.

The next morning when Erica looked up from reading the newsfeed on her laptop, coffee in hand, she noticed Franky's green eyes were not on her law book. They were watching her. She had noticed this before and it delighted her. She couldn't help smiling.

"Am I bothering you?" She asked, coming over to her and sliding her arm around Franky before kissing her. The weather had warmed up dramatically in the last few days and Franky had swapped her black ripped jeans for shorts. Erica's fingers wandered up the inside of her toned thigh.

"I am bothered by you," Franky agreed, letting Erica kiss her, leaning into it. She let go of her law book so she could put her hands on Erica's hips, pulling her closer until she stood between Franky's thighs. She didn't seem particularly bothered, Erica thought. Her fingers tugged at Franky's top then slid across her warm stomach. She couldn't resist her, couldn't stop herself, didn't want to. The thought drifted through her consciousness.

Franky groaned as she pulled her mouth away reluctantly, before Erica could take things any further, before she gave in and the day was lost to more enjoyable pursuits. "Don't you have a job interview to go to?" She asked hopefully.

"No," Erica said. "I'm all yours," she offered with an inviting smile.

Franky grinned reluctantly. "Mm," she responded, her head dropping and resting against Erica's flat stomach. Her hands slid from Erica's hips to her arse. She felt Erica's hands on her shoulders. "I really have to do some study," she said with a sigh.

"Okay," Erica withdrew her hands in surrender. "I could go into the office and clean out my desk I suppose." She had been avoiding the inevitable confrontation with Ben. It was easier and more enjoyable to pretend there was no one else in her world but one deliciously addictive tattooed woman.

Franky gave her butt a playful slap as she let go of it. "Play nice," she instructed.

When Erica returned to the apartment Franky wasn't there. She felt a stab of disappointment. She took a shower. The meeting with Ben had gone better than she had expected. In fact it hadn't gone at all how she had thought it would. He hadn't been there when she had arrived at the office and she thought she might manage to pack up and leave without seeing him. She wondered now if someone had given him a tip off so he could intercept her. He had turned up as she was about to leave. They should have a drink he said, and clear the air. She had agreed half-heartedly. In Erica's view there was no point in petty recriminations, she'd made her choice and she didn't regret it. The frustrations she'd been feeling about her role had been temporarily subdued thanks to Louisa's proposition. If she was honest with herself though, she knew she had lost her enthusiasm for promoting Ben's agenda.

She turned off the water and grabbed a towel. Instead of recriminations though, Ben had surprised her. He said he'd been hasty in sacking her. He knew about the fire at Sarah Carson's flat. She was following up a lead on Ferguson. He realised that now. He wanted her back on the team. She was invaluable. He had laid it on pretty thick in Erica's view.

She thought she heard someone moving around the apartment. Had she locked the door as Franky had instructed, she wondered. "Franky!" She didn't get a response. Erica wrapped the towel around herself and left the bathroom. "Franky?" She said again.

As she wandered through the apartment she realised it couldn't have been Franky she heard. The apartment was empty. She wondered what Franky was doing. She then wondered how she should spend the rest of the day. What did ladies of leisure actually do?

Franky was at the cafe near Bridget's townhouse. She remembered the first time she and Bridget had been there, on the day of her parole. She had felt such anticipation and hope that day. It was early evening. Bridget had sent her a text saying she wanted to meet. Now she was at the counter ordering their coffees. She looked fully recovered from the fire. She looked calm, self-assured and engaging as she had been with Franky when they had first met. Franky felt her foot tapping. Bridget swung around suddenly in that smooth clipped movement she had. Franky had always thought it was incredibly sexy the way she did that.

The authorities were having trouble identifying the body Bridget told her. Usually in cases like this where they had a good idea of the identity of the victim they used dental records to confirm it and the process was quite straightforward. Except Joan Ferguson's dental records appeared to be missing.

"Shit, she planned the whole thing," Franky said when she heard.

"Franky," Bridget said with a sigh. "How could she have? She wasn't to know I would come to Sarah's flat."

"So she planned to take Sarah's car," Franky offered as an alternative. "She took yours because, well fuck who wouldn't, given the opportunity."

"The skid marks indicate the Porsche was travelling at a speed in excess of 200km when it took that bend. Only Michael Schumacher would have been able to keep that car on the road." Bridget pointed out.

"She waved down some poor unsuspecting bastard, knocked them out, stuck them behind the wheel and jammed the throttle somehow," Franky said with conviction. "She's probably cruising around in a Honda Jazz now courtesy of our unidentified victim."

Bridget sipped her coffee. However implausible it might seem, Franky's hypothesis had merit. Joan Ferguson was entirely capable of planning and executing it. If she wanted to disappear though, surely this would only be a temporary respite. With the technology available these days they could source DNA samples from the bone of the victim to use for identification. It took time that was all. She said as much to Franky.

"Yeah, in the meantime she's given you a hotshot," Franky said bluntly.

"Franky," Bridget said with a shake of her head. She could feel the needle sliding through her skin and into her vein. Her blood pumping the drug through her system until her heart arrested. There were too many ways to die, she thought suddenly.

"Look Gidge, if you want to chuck your life away then fine," Franky said with frustration, raising her hands in defeat. Her wrists were still bandaged from the injuries sustained in the fire.

"Of course I don't," Bridget refuted calmly.

"Then what are you doing?" Franky asked with a frown, sliding back in her chair and crossing her arms. Bridget gave her a puzzled look. "Do you seriously think you have a chance against Ferguson?" Franky looked at her with pity. "Because I don't," she added brutally. She waited for Bridget to absorb that then leant forward, placing her hand on the table near Bridget's. Her eyes dark and serious. "I don't want you to die, you got it?" She said softly. "I couldn't live with that." Her hand moved slightly. "We've been through too much together, you and me."

Bridget felt Franky's hand against her own and her eyes so expressive holding her gaze. "Yeah," she murmured. It was too late to try and save her heart, she realised, it was no longer hers to save.

"So no arguments, huh?" Franky pushed home her advantage. "I'm going to crash at yours until Ferguson is under lock and key again." As though it was decided, and in Franky's mind it had been.

"That could take forever," Bridget pointed out.

"No, it won't," Franky said grimly. Bridget knew what Franky was implying, that Ferguson would waste no time trying to finish her off. "It's been nearly a week since they found your car. Ferguson has had plenty of time to check news reports on the fire. She'll know we survived. She's planning something," Franky said ominously.

Bridget was silent but there was no point ignoring the rather large elephant in the room. "What's Erica have to say about this?"

Franky withdrew her hand. "This has got nothing to do with her," she replied firmly.

"Franky, I know you're involved with her," Bridget frowned.

"Have you heard from the Psychology Board?" Franky asked suddenly.

"You're changing the subject," Bridget pointed out.

"Have you?" Franky asked again, determined not to let Bridget have control of the conversation. She was too good at forcing conversations Franky didn't want to have, asking questions Franky didn't want to answer, making Franky admit things she wanted to deny. None of this recognised how much Franky had benefited as a result of Bridget's persistence.

"No," she said briefly.

"Fuckers," Franky muttered. "They could at least put you out of your misery."

"It's a process," Bridget replied calmly as though her entire career wasn't in jeopardy.

Franky returned to her main point. "It's not about ruining your career and reputation anymore, Gidge." Bridget had told Franky the source of the complaint against her. Franky didn't mince words. "Ferguson wants you dead."

"I don't need your protection, Franky," she said firmly. "I've changed the locks and the laundry window is fixed."

Franky pushed her coffee cup away. "Why are you fighting me on this?" She asked, a frown creasing her countenance, her eyes questioning. "At the hospital you were quite happy to go along with it."

"In the hospital it became clear to me that you are exactly where you want to be, Franky." She had thought she could handle the hurt, the disappointment but she could feel it overwhelming her. Her heart was crying, drowning her in its tears.

Franky defended herself.  "I'm where you put me," She said clearly, "when you broke up with me. I was being honest about how I was feeling. That's what you said wanted from me. I thought that's what we wanted, a relationship that could handle honesty. Yeah, I'm with Erica," she acknowledged, "but it wasn't me who walked away this time, Bridget."

"I haven't walked away," Bridget refuted quietly. "I said I'd be there for you and I am." She sighed. "You are using my decision as a justification for your behaviour, Franky."

Franky shook her head slightly. "Don't psycho-analyse me," she muttered.

"Okay," Bridget conceded. "But Franky, I've never known you to do anything you didn't want to do," she pointed out.

"Except every fucking day in prison," Franky retorted bitterly.

Bridget saw the old Franky in that comment. War weary, battle scarred and bloody from her fight with her demons. Her news about Ferguson would be weighing on Franky. It wasn't the moment for them to be arguing, separated by misunderstanding. Ferguson would use it to her advantage as she had before.

"I'm sorry," Bridget said softly. "Let's not fight." She put her hand on Franky's and gave her a half smile, inviting her to meet her halfway.

Franky's phone beeped. She glanced down at it but didn't recognise the number. There was no message just an attachment. She looked up and frowned at Bridget.

"What is it?" She asked, suddenly wary.

"Maybe nothing," Franky said but the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. The attachment was a video. She played it. "Fuck!" She looked around before her eyes settled on Bridget.

"What?"

Franky passed her the phone. "I bet that number is the mobile Ferguson used to contact you while she was in the hospital."

Bridget looked at it. Her phone had been lost in the fire.  It was possible Ferguson had taken it with her but if she had Bridget doubted she would still have it.  It would have been too easy to trace.  "I think it is," she said, looking up to see the concern on Franky's face.

"That video was taken from inside Erica's apartment."  Franky told her.  "She's going after Erica." 


	17. Fools Rush In

Erica's mobile rang as she had just finished applying a mineral masque to her face. "Feel like celebrating?" It was Louisa Kelly.

Erica looked at her watch. It was almost 7pm. "Celebrating what?" She asked, trying to keep the phone away from her face then she remembered the speaker option.

"The Minister just called me," Erica noticed the Irish accent was more pronounced when Louisa was excited. "We've got the funding!" Erica was surprised. She couldn't help but be suspicious of Ben's motives. He knew she had advocated strongly for the project. Was this part of his attempt to lure her back to the fold? Louisa was still talking, "well virtually, there is some paperwork but he tells me it's just a formality." Erica rolled her eyes. No doubt Ben had promised the funding from the grant program, which had a rigorous assessment process, which he would be criticised for ignoring if the auditors came through. Still, it wasn't her problem anymore.

Franky's words from the previous morning were at the back of her mind. She hadn't taken them seriously but, if she was honest with herself, she hadn't entirely dismissed them either. "Yes," she agreed on impulse.

"Excellent!" Louisa's enthusiasm was infectious. "I'll swing past your place and pick you up," she said.

Bridget watched the video. It showed footage of a modern apartment which had clean surfaces and very little in the way of personal effects. She thought it could be anyone's apartment but presumably Franky was familiar enough with Erica's home to recognise it.

"She's inside the fucking apartment," Franky muttered in disbelief. She stood up suddenly.

Bridget looked up. "Where are you going?" She asked quickly.

"Where do you reckon?" Franky asked as she picked up her keys and put her hand out for her phone.

Bridget didn't return the phone though, instead she closed her eyes. There was something that wasn't sitting right with her about the whole scenario. She opened them and saw Franky's hand still waiting impatiently. "Let's think this through," she urged. Her eyes met Franky's and held them. She knew they needed to get ahead of Ferguson if they were going to have any hope of out playing her. The last thing she wanted was for Franky to throw herself into harm's way without being forearmed. "Please Franky," she said quietly. After a moment she handed back the phone.

Franky stared at her. Despite a burning desire to act she sat down again. "Okay," she agreed.

"Why would Ferguson go after Erica Davidson when she has nothing to do with any of this?" Bridget asked.

Her question was a reasonable one. "I dunno," Franky said with a shrug. "To get back at me," she offered. As she said it she wondered how Ferguson even knew she and Erica were together. Then she remembered the anonymous video clip of them kissing, almost certainly filmed by Sarah Carson but undoubtedly shared with Ferguson. Of course she knew about them.

"That's not it," Bridget said firmly. Her brain had managed to attach what she knew about Ferguson to this new turn of events. "You need to forget about what's in that video, Franky," she said suddenly. "You are seeing exactly what she wants you to see."

"What?" Franky frowned. She didn't know what Bridget was on about. She could see it was Erica's apartment. There was no mistaking it. Her foot tapped restlessly. What if they were just wasting time? What if these precious minutes counted at the crunch?

"She wants you to assume Erica is in danger," Bridget explained. Franky frowned. It was clear she didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. "Ferguson is playing you," Bridget said bluntly. "She has worked out what drives you and she is using it against you." Franky just shook her head slightly. "You help people you care about, Franky," Bridget pointed out with a sigh. "She knows you tried to help Jodie, that you risked your life for Doreen's baby, that you came to find me at Sarah's flat." Franky stared at Bridget, her brain processing her words. "The game hasn't changed," Bridget said quietly. "You were right when you said she wants me dead. The video is a ruse, to make you do exactly what she wants you to do."

Franky remembered the conversation she'd had with Ferguson in the early days of their acquaintance, when the governor had returned the letters she'd written to Erica. Joan Ferguson knew what Franky had said in those letters, and how she had felt about Erica. It was possible Bridget was right.

"There is nothing in that video to indicate Erica is in danger." Bridget saw the hesitation in Franky's eyes. "It could have been filmed today, yesterday, or last week."

"Why send it then?" Franky rubbed her neck impatiently, still reluctant, but listening.

"Divide and conquer," Bridget said with certainty. "She wants to distract you and get you safely out of the way."

Franky considered her words. It sounded plausible but the idea of doing nothing when Erica might be in danger jarred with Franky's psyche. Alternatively she could go, possibly walk into a trap of Ferguson's making, and leave Bridget to fend for herself against a psychopath.

She looked at Bridget, her face full of angst and uncertainty. "What if you're wrong?" she asked at last.

Bridget was silent. Psychology wasn't an exact science. If she was wrong she would pay a heavy price. They all would. She felt Franky's eyes burning into her own, daring her to dismiss the possibility. "Call her," Bridget said eventually.

Erica was still getting ready when her doorbell rang. She had picked out a simple strappy black dress with a slightly flared skirt which stopped mid thigh. She had pinned her hair up and was deciding which earrings to wear. She was looking forward to going out she realised. She wished it was Franky taking her though. She thought about them dancing together, slightly heady with champagne, perfume pervading the air, hips swaying to the music, sexy, sultry. She opened the door to her apartment distracted by this thought.

She expected to see Louisa Kelly but instead she saw a tall, majestic woman of Slavic descent. She seemed vaguely familiar but Erica couldn't place her. She raked her memory without result.

"I do hope I'm not bothering you," the woman said immediately as Erica looked at her enquiringly. Her voice sounded educated and without a trace of an accent. "I'm June Polack, your new neighbour," she explained with a smile. "I just moved in on Monday, apartment nine," she clarified.  "I thought I'd come over and introduce myself."

That explained the slight recognition, thought Erica, she had seen this woman in the lift during the week. "I'm about to go out," she said with an apologetic smile.

"Oh," the woman sounded disappointed. "Oh well, never mind," she said and began to turn away but stopped. "I brought this," she said as she produced a bottle of wine. "I thought we could have a drink. It's always nice to know your neighbours, don't you think? Still, another time perhaps." She offered the wine to Erica.

Erica felt captured. The woman had made an effort to be friendly. Erica didn't know any of her neighbours despite having moved into the building 18 months ago. She hadn't even known number nine had been vacant. Her work had consumed her and she rarely even passed anyone in the lift because of the hours she kept.

"I'm Erica," she replied, introducing herself. "Look, why don't you come in," she said impulsively. "I've got time for a quick drink." She stepped back, holding open the door.

"Well, if you're sure," the woman sounded hopeful.

Erica smiled politely. "Of course," she said.

"Oh I like your decor," the woman gushed as she looked around. "Very minimalist. I do dislike clutter," she confessed. "Glasses," she suggested when she saw Erica had paused and was watching her. She opened the bottle. "I hope you like rosé," she said, "I thought it would make a nice change given the weather has warmed up."

"Lovely," Erica said as she returned with the glasses.

There was a moment of silence as her new neighbour poured out two generous glasses. She spilt some when she pulled the bottle away too quickly. "Damn it," she muttered, annoyed with herself.

"Don't worry about it," Erica said easily as she disappeared to find the paper towels. "Wine is always getting spilt." She thought about the last incident with Franky and couldn't help smiling.

By the time she had returned, her new neighbour had mopped up most of it with her handkerchief. "Here," she thrust a glass at her. "Drink up before I spill any more," she said with a self-deprecating laugh. She held up her glass. "Good neighbours," she toasted.

Erica smiled politely. She sipped her wine. It was drier than she had been expecting. Rosé in Australia was usually quite sweet. "Until recently I was working for the government but I'm a lawyer by profession," she said in response to her neighbour's question about her employment. It was the simplest answer.

"Well, that will be handy if I ever need one," June said with a smile. Erica drank more wine and wondered how long it would be before Louisa arrived. She didn't really like the wine, she decided. "Although," the woman was saying, "I expect that's unlikely." She was looking around the flat with open curiosity. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yes," Erica replied. Franky's casual visits couldn't be defined as anything more.

The older woman eyed her with interest. "That surprises me," she said.

"Really? Why is that?" Erica asked her. She watched as June straightened her coaster.

"You're very attractive," she said in a forthright way, "I imagine you have men pursuing you all the time, and women," she added. Erica didn't say anything. "So that tells me something about you," June said as she sipped her wine.

"And what's that?" Erica asked coolly. The conversation seemed suddenly odd to her. Despite its appearance as social chanting that has its own rhythm and predictability, Erica felt there was a purpose to it. Although what that might be remained a mystery to her. She drank more wine.

"That you're picky," June said with lightness and she smiled. Her eyes, Erica noticed, did not change. Their dark impenetrable depths reflected nothing. Erica remembered that the eyes were said to be the windows to the soul. "There is nothing wrong with that,” June was saying, "but it can leave you without anyone, alone and vulnerable."

Erica frowned. "I'm not alone," she refuted. June Polack just smiled, sipping her wine and appraising her. It made Erica feel uncomfortable.

Her phone rang and she answered it with some relief. "Hello," she said with enthusiasm. She noticed her dark haired companion was watching her curiously. She turned away from her and dropped her voice. "I can't talk."

"Everything okay?" Franky asked her. Erica heard the noise of a cafe or bar in the background and a worried note in Franky's voice.

"Yes," Erica reassured her, "it's just that I have someone here with me."

"It's not Ferguson, is it?" Franky asked.

"What? No," Erica replied with a surprised laugh. "It's my new neighbour."

"Listen, Ferguson has been to your flat," Franky was saying. "Promise me you will keep your door locked." Erica felt her stomach churn uncomfortably. "Erica?" Franky's tone was urgent. "Is it locked now?"

"Yes," Erica said slowly. Her mind still processing Franky's words. "What do you mean? When?"

"I dunno," Franky answered, unhelpful. Erica wondered. "What are you doing tonight?" Franky was asking.

"Going out with Louisa," she answered distractedly. "Franky, have you seen my teal earrings? I can't find them." She asked suddenly.

"No," Franky said immediately. There was a pause before she said, "I've gotta go." She put her phone down and frowned at it, lost in thought.

"Well?" Bridget prompted.

"She's okay," Franky said rubbing her temple. Something was bothering her about the conversation with Erica but she wasn't sure what it was exactly. She went through the conversation again. There was nothing in it to concern her. It had been brief but Erica had explained that by saying her neighbour was there with her. "What now then?" Her eyes met Bridget's and she saw relief in them.

Erica put down her phone and turned to face Joan Ferguson. Why had she not recognised her immediately? She had only seen the photo they had used on the news though when the Governor had been wearing her hair pulled back into a tight bun and her correctional services uniform. It had been a head and shoulders shot probably taken from her security pass at Wentworth. June Polack had long flowing dark hair which fell in loose waves to her shoulders. It softened her face, which Erica would have described as handsome in a striking, unconventional way. Her majestic frame was dressed in a long flowing silk red blouse with ruffles decorating the front and tailored black pants. Her make-up subtly enhanced those dark eyes and bright red lipstick emphasised her femininity. She looked nothing like the stern, unsmiling Governor of Wentworth Correctional Centre.

She thought about mentioning Louisa's imminent arrival. It was so tempting just to say, "my friend will be here soon so you'd better leave." Tempting but she worried that it would only forewarn her and rush whatever plans Joan Ferguson had for her. Surely Louisa couldn't be far away and then it would be two against one. Erica edged surreptitiously towards the door.

"Have another wine," Ferguson was suggesting. Erica glanced at her glass only to see she had almost finished it. She had a sudden unwelcome thought. What if Ferguson had laced her drink with something while she'd had her back turned looking in the pantry cupboard for the paper towels? Even as she thought this she obediently held out her glass for a refill.

Her doorbell rang at that moment. Its sudden intrusive sound startled her and her hand jerked slightly spilling the wine. Blue eyes met black for an instance then Erica raced for the door.

Bridget could feel Franky's foot tapping against the table leg, its relentlessness beating out her reluctance towards the futility of inaction. She might have caved, conceded to Bridget's logic but it was clear she hated it.

"How are you?" Bridget broke the silence between them.

Green eyes refocused and honed in, isolating Bridget from all the distractions around her. Having agreed to do nothing Franky now felt trapped in that decision. Inactivity felt terrible and the activity in her mind seemed to increase proportionally. She remembered what had happened to Jodie. She had gone against her instincts then and lived to regret it.

Her foot ceased its drumming. "Okay I guess." She wondered why she didn't sound more enthusiastic. She tried harder. "I'm helping out on Boomer's defence, and I've found a flat," she added.

Bridget was surprised. She had assumed, wrongly it seemed, that Franky had moved straight in with Erica. She could feel a little hope stubbornly take up residence in her heart even as her head cautioned against it. Maybe the Erica phenomenon was just that, a fleeting insanity that was already passing. Franky's earlier comment had been an aggressive attempt to shift the blame to Bridget as though Franky's actions had been a consequence rather than a catalyst. From a psychological perspective it hadn't surprised her but it had disappointed her. She had thought Franky had moved beyond blaming others. There was, however, another explanation lying in the murky waters of Franky's statement. People who were sure in their decision did not need to shout out excuses to justify it.

"I think it's good that you have your own place," was all she said.

"Why?" Franky challenged immediately.

"I think you will benefit from being independent. It will only have positive impacts."

"Right," Franky replied. She was disappointed with Bridget's reply. "Is that your professional opinion?"

Bridget laughed softly and looked away. "It's very much a personal one," she answered.

"Is it?" Franky asked, surprised and pleased. She studied Bridget. "I'm sorry, about what I said earlier," she broke the sudden expectant silence. "It wasn't fair, and it isn't true. I know I'm responsible for how it ended between us." Bridget was watching Franky intently. "You've done so much for me," Franky continued quietly. "Sometimes I feel like it's unbalanced between us, that we can never be on equal ground because of what's gone before. How could I ever give you as much as you've given to me?" Her eyes shone with unshed tears, putting her fears into words made it final, made it true.

"I didn't realise that's how you felt," Bridget said in a soft voice. She realised now the dangers of a relationship between patient and therapist. The debt, the gratitude that Franky felt towards her would work against them. Would the thing that had brought them together also tear them apart? If not today or tomorrow then eventually? Had it already? "Franky, no relationship is ever equal. That expression, there are givers and there are takers, it is an oversimplification but the truth is whatever one person gets or gives in a relationship will never be replicated. What you give me isn't the same but it's just as precious."

Franky's mobile vibrated on the table. They both looked at it expectantly but it was a text message from another unknown number. "So can you speak to dad tonight?" was all it said. Franky smiled ruefully. She knew the sound of surrender from a cornered beast, she had been there herself.

Bridget's look was enquiring. "It's Jenna," Franky explained. "I promised to help her with something."

"Go then," Bridget encouraged her, "go and help your sister." Franky hesitated. "I'll be fine," she reassured her. "I have to drop in on Richard anyway." She said, referring to her artist friend.

Erica's vision was blurry. She saw a dark head in her peripheral vision. "Franky?" she whispered, disorientated.

The image came into focus. Joan Ferguson had turned her head and was watching her. Gone was the gushing, artificially sweet persona. Those dark eyes now held icy contempt. She smiled. It was a superior smile and laced with pity.

Memories flooded Erica. She had tried to call out to Louisa but the words had seemed to take forever to leave her mouth. Her legs had seemed incapable of carrying her. She had fallen. She remembered watching as Joan Ferguson pulled on a pair of dark leather gloves. It had been the last thing she saw before the darkness fell.

Ferguson was speaking in a soothing voice. "She'll be here, I have no doubt. She won't be able to resist."

Erica's brain, still thick and syrupy from the drugs, struggled to understand what was happening. "Why would you think that?" She asked at last.

"Franky Doyle has a hero complex," Ferguson informed her patronisingly. "Perhaps it's because no one ever rescued her when she was an abused little girl, so now she desperately wants to save people she cares about," Joan Ferguson smiled. "And she cares about you," she said knowingly. "I read those letters she wrote to you, so much angst, such intense emotions, so desperate." The last word was drawn out for extra emphasis.

"What letters?" Erica asked with confusion.

"She never showed them to you?" Ferguson asked with mock surprise. "Goodness, they were so enlightening, such an insight into her psyche. I found them incredibly useful. It was naive of her to write them but desperation will make fools of us all as I'm sure you know."

The pregnant pause and the knowing smile combined to unnerve Erica still further. She wondered what Joan Ferguson knew about her. "Why are you doing this?"

"We are going to make a little video for her," Ferguson continued, ignoring the interjection. "As a little encouragement."

Erica shifted suddenly, pulling on her restraints. It was no use. She was spread eagled and securely bound. Her arms were above her head secured to the bed head with cable ties. Her ankles were also bound. She felt anger welling up inside her. "Get out," she demanded.

"Sssssh," Ferguson put a gloved finger to Erica's lips. She pulled it away quickly when Erica tried to bite it. "That wasn't very smart," she told her. "I'll only hurt you more if you don't behave." She struck her then, suddenly, across the face, a blow so hard it stunned her and made her eyes water.

Ferguson produced a mobile phone and held it up, activating the camera. She ran a gloved finger lightly along Erica's bare leg, upwards towards the hem of her dress. "Do you want me to hurt you?" She asked softly.

Erica stared at her. It was as though Joan Ferguson knew her deepest, darkest secrets. The cold finger of fear touched her.

"You're trembling," her voice was low, "as a frightened bird does in the hands of its rescuer, unsure if its fate is to fly again or have its neck broken." The gloved hand caressed her cheek. "Such an unhappy state." Her hold fastened around her neck, firmly but not restrictive, not yet.

Erica closed her eyes. "She won't come," she said suddenly and with conviction. "Franky's smarter than you think." She opened her eyes again as she felt Ferguson's hand release her. She smiled defiantly. "So there's no point to this except the sadistic pleasure you get from it."

"You sound braver than I think you are," Ferguson told her. "Is that what attracts you to Franky? Her foolish bravado? Do you want to be like her?" There was almost a curiosity to the question, as though Joan Ferguson really wanted to know.

"Fuck you," Erica said defiantly. She had ruined the video and that had been her intent. Ferguson had clearly planned to send it to Franky, to lead her into danger.

"Do you really think your little attempt at sabotage will have any effect?" Ferguson asked. "I can edit the footage and erase your comment before I send it."

Erica remembered Ben's social media guy telling her as much when they had been uploading a video of a speech he made. She felt her small mound of courage crumble. She knew suddenly that it was futile and she just wished it was over.

Bridget watched Franky leave. She pulled out her mobile phone and dialled the number she had memorised when Franky had shown her the video footage. There was only one way to end this. 

Franky watched her dad absorb her words. He looked bewildered more than angry. He rubbed his stubble. "I don't know how to get through to her," he admitted with a sigh. "She's got a wild streak that one, clever," he acknowledged, "but she can't help breaking rules."

"I think she knows she fucked up," Franky told him. "I said I'd make it okay with you." Her dad looked at her, recognising emotional blackmail when he saw it. Franky grinned. "You can take it off what you owe me," she offered.

She needn't have said it. He was never going to say no to her. "Okay," he agreed, "on one condition." Franky waited. "You take an interest in Jen. She needs a steadying influence."

Franky laughed. "And you think that's me?"

"You've been to prison and know firsthand the consequences of falling off the rails," he pointed out. "She is far more likely to listen to you than me." He looked a little weary from swimming upstream all the time.

Franky picked up her phone. "All right, but no promises," she warned. She stood up. "She's going to love that," she added with a grin.

It was almost 9pm and she felt restless. Erica would be out somewhere with Louisa Kelly by now. As she walked towards the train station she replayed their last conversation in her mind. There was something odd about it and she couldn't shake the feeling she had missed something important. On the train she was sitting across from a young couple who were completely absorbed in each other. Franky watched them even as her mind was elsewhere. They couldn't keep their hands off each other and Franky had to smile. She knew exactly what lay in their immediate future. Something gleamed in the girl's hair and it suddenly dawned on Franky what had bothered her about that conversation with Erica.

She took the tram to Erica's apartment. She didn't ring Bridget to let her know what she had decided, mainly because she knew Bridget would caution against it. Franky had no intention of going in all guns blazing. She would keep a low profile, she wouldn't do anything reckless. It was just a recce to see if there was anything dodgy going on.

The first thing she checked as she approached the building was whether Erica's lights were on. She saw the main windows were lit up. Erica, on the sixth floor, didn't believe in curtains. She liked to look out on the city lights, she had told Franky. Her place overlooked a park so there were no neighbours to voyeuristically enjoy Erica's casual attitude to privacy. When Franky had mentioned drones with webcams she had laughed. "Let them look," she had said. Still, not even Erica left her lights on when she was going out for the evening.

Franky punched in the code to open the main door then took the fire stairs up to the sixth floor. She approached Erica's door, noiseless on the carpeted hallway then waited, listening. There was no sound coming from inside. Cautiously she turned the handle but the door was locked. She stood thinking. Erica had mentioned her neighbour. She scanned the hallway. There was only one other apartment on the floor, number nine, so presumably that was the neighbour who had called in. Franky wanted to talk to them.  There was no answer though despite Franky's loud knocking.

She returned to Erica's door and on impulse rang her mobile number. After a moment she heard it ringing faintly. The sound was coming from inside the apartment. Franky didn't believe for a moment that Erica would go out without her phone. So either Erica was still inside or she had left under duress. Either way she was going in, she decided.

She found the spare key to Erica's apartment hidden in the storage shed at the back of her car space in the basement. Erica had told her where she kept it after the night she had left the door unlocked. Quietly, she slipped it into the lock and opened the door to Erica's apartment. She edged inside. It was quiet, deathly quiet. A sense of dread crept over her. She didn't know what she'd find and didn't want to even think about it. It could incapacitate you if you thought about it too much.

She looked around but there was nothing out of place, no sign of any disturbance. She saw one wine glass, washed and draining next to the kitchen sink. There was no sign of Ferguson or Erica. Then she heard a slight sound from the bedroom. Carefully she slid a small knife from the block that sat on the kitchen bench. She approached the partially open door with caution. She wondered if Ferguson was waiting for her behind that door. There was only one way to find out and she kicked it suddenly. It swung back violently and hit the wall. She heard a scream.

When she entered the bedroom she saw Erica spread eagle on the bed, bound and terrified. "Fuck," she muttered, quickly checking the rest of the room for Ferguson's lurking presence as she said it. There was no sign of her.

"Where's Ferguson?" She asked without preamble. She used the knife to release Erica from her restraints.

"I don't know," Erica said in a rush, feeling panicked that at the moment of rescue Ferguson would return. Isn't that what happened?

Franky saw each wrist had an angry red line that stood out against Erica's pale skin. It was a testament to how tightly Ferguson had bound her and of her struggle. Erica had not cowered before her captor.

"Are you hurt?" Franky asked as she helped Erica to sit up.

"No," she answered but the word came out choked and emotional as Franky put her arms around her. The sudden release from her terror and the relief at being safe overwhelmed her. She was crying, clinging to Franky's comforting strength.

Franky wanted to ask her what the hell happened, when and why Ferguson had left, whether she knew what Ferguson had in mind, but she didn't. She just held Erica and thought about all the other ways this could have played out.

"I hoped you'd come," Erica mumbled into her shoulder.

"I'm here," Franky reassured her, stroking her hair. She was annoyed with herself for ignoring her instincts. If she had left as soon as she had received the video then maybe none of this would have happened. She was furious with Bridget for persuading her. She wished with all her heart that she had acted differently and spared Erica.

When she said as much though, the pragmatic lawyer in Erica disagreed. "What would have happened then?" She asked, sitting up and wiping her tears. It was easy to be brave now she was safe.  "What would you have done with that knife if Ferguson had been here, Franky?"

Franky thought about all the times Ferguson had outplayed her, belittled her, used the power she wielded to manipulate her. What would she have done, given the opportunity to take the upper hand just once, to have Ferguson cower before her and deliver rough justice for Jodie? It was a question she didn't want to answer.

"How did Ferguson get in?" She asked instead.

"I let her in," Erica admitted. She measured Franky's disbelief by the height her eyebrows rose on that expressive face of hers. "Don't look at me like that."

"Fuck Erica, I told you how dangerous Ferguson is!"  Franky hit her palm against her thigh in frustration. 

"I didn't recognise her obviously. She looked normal." Erica justified herself.

"Normal?"

"Yes, normal, exactly how I'd expect one of my neighbours to look, she seemed genuine," Erica gently rubbed her right wrist as she spoke. She told Franky how Ferguson had managed to fool her.

To Franky it had all seemed a little too easy. The sheer brilliance and brazenness of it was what scared her.  Erica wasn't an idiot, she wouldn't let just anyone into her home.  "So what happened, I mean why did she leave?"

"She received a phone call and that seemed to change her intent," Erica told her.  "One minute she seemed determined to lure you over here and the next it didn't seem to matter anymore."

Franky was mystified. "Who was the call from?"

"I don't know, Ferguson didn't say anything that gave any clues. She seemed surprised by the call, that's all I can tell you." Franky was silent, trying to make sense of it. "I need to get changed." Erica said suddenly and stood up.

Franky got up. "I'll make you a tea," she offered, watching Erica carefully. "Come here," she instructed softly. She could feel Erica tremble slightly in her arms and Franky pulled her closer, hugging her tightly. "It's over," she murmured, "you're safe."

As Franky waited for the kettle to boil, her mind turned over what had happened. Ferguson, like the slippery snake she was, had slithered away once again, lost in the dark protective anonymity of the city. A place where even freaks could hide. She had told Erica she was safe but in reality none of them were safe until Ferguson was locked up or dead.

She looked in the fridge. Since she had been staying over Erica's fridge had begun to look a little more fit for purpose. Now she perused it and finding what she wanted, pulled a handful of items from its shelves.

Erica appeared a short time later. She was dressed in yoga pants and a t-shirt. She'd scrubbed off her make-up and had taken her hair down. She looked younger and more vulnerable than the corporate Erica, who exuded a smart sexy aura. She slid onto a stool across from Franky. "What are you doing?" She asked.

"Making you something to eat," Franky told her. "You haven't eaten, right?"

"I'm not hungry," Erica replied numbly. She could feel the shock sinking in. She took up the mug of tea Franky had made her. It was overly sweet and strong with milk. There was another flavour which Erica recognised as scotch. "This is horrible," she said.  She liked her tea weak and black.

"Just drink it," Franky said firmly. "The sugar is for the shock and the whiskey is to help you sleep."

"And the milk?" Erica murmured as she obediently put the mug to her lips.

"Calcium," Franky grinned.

"You've got an answer for everything, haven't you?" Erica muttered.  It seemed surreal to be sitting drinking tea and making frivolous conversation as though it was any normal night in.

"Yep," came the rejoinder.

The dish Franky was preparing seemed overly complicated to Erica. The grill was on and something was steaming on the hot plates. Recently strange things had started to turn up in her fridge but she never questioned their appearance because of what Franky managed to create with them.

"Why did you come here tonight?" She asked suddenly. "I told you I was going out with Louisa."

"I know," Franky said without looking up. "I came because you used our safe word when you asked about your earrings. I thought you might have done it deliberately." She looked up from cutting red peppers into thin slices. "Did you?"

Erica stared at Franky. "No," she said softly. Unknowingly she had almost led Franky straight into danger. The word teal had popped into her head at the time. She wasn't even sure if it was the right description for her earrings that could look green in one light and blue in another.

"Just lucky then," Franky said, and Erica noticed her eyes were bright with emotion before she bent her head to her task.

Erica watched the bent head with its glossy dark hair. Lucky, yes she had been that, in more ways than one, she agreed silently.

"Grilled halloumi salad with green beans, chargrilled red peppers and avocado with a reduced balsamic dressing," Franky announced a short time later as she slid the plate across to Erica. She watched with satisfaction as Erica ate it all.

"Are you sure you want to be a lawyer?" Erica asked as she pushed the empty plate away. Franky just smiled. "Thank you, that was delicious." She said sincerely.

Franky put everything into the dishwasher. Her philosophy was that anything which couldn't survive a machine wash had no right to be in a kitchen.  "I'll run you a bath," she said.  "It will help you relax."  She kissed Erica softly on the lips then hugged her close.  "You're safe now."  She said again, as much to reassure herself as Erica.

While Erica was soaking in a warm lavender bath, Franky called Bridget.  She wanted to tell her what had happened, warn her to be careful, be reassured that she was safe. 

But Bridget's phone just rang out.

 


	18. Bridget's Way

There was a moment, in the cafe, when Franky had unwittingly shown Bridget what needed to be done. It was the moment when her path had become clear. It was a treacherous lonely path, but Bridget had suddenly realised it was the only path.

"What now then?" Franky had asked after hanging up from Erica Davidson. She had looked at Bridget expectantly but the psychologist didn't have any answers. She had shaken her head.

"Do you think Ferguson has a plan?" Franky had asked while playing absently with her coffee cup.

Bridget had nodded. "Yes," she had said with certainty. "Psychopaths often plan things down to the smallest detail, they can obsess over those details, spending considerable time and effort to ensure every aspect is perfect."

"And if things don't go to plan?" Franky had then asked, her green eyes curious.

"Control is very important to them. When things go awry they can become unstable, often violent, and they will attribute the blame to others rather than themselves," Bridget had explained.

"So if Ferguson planned to escape from the psychiatric institution and kill Sarah then use her car to vanish-"

Bridget had interrupted her. "I don't think that was the plan. I think she always planned to have her day in court. She honestly believed she could defeat the charges against her. All our early conversations indicated that she believed she was cleverer than the police, the Public Prosecutor, her psychiatrist."

"So what changed?"

"Sarah Carson became a liability. She knew something about Ferguson that would prejudice the case against her and influence the outcome of her trial." It was ground they had been over before.

"How Sarah's sister died," Franky had prompted.

"It could have been anything," Bridget had said with a sigh. "It doesn't matter now. Sarah is dead, and not talking."

"And you saw her die, so now she wants me out of the way so she can kill you too." Franky had looked at her thoughtfully.

"Yes," Bridget had agreed. She wished Franky wouldn't keep referring to her imminent death quite so casually.

Franky had slid forward in her chair suddenly, tilting it so the back legs had lifted off the ground. She had leaned forward towards Bridget, her elbows sliding across the table. "Maybe we should give her what she wants," she had suggested unexpectedly, only half in jest.

She had looked so cocky, as though she had a plan. That kind of confidence was attractive and knowing it didn't make Bridget any more immune to it. She had felt the pull of Franky's irresistible charisma. Those green eyes had been alight with humour and brazen plans that would defy caution and sense, and would lead them both into breathless reckless danger. For a moment they had no longer been two halves of a fractured relationship but co-conspirators bound together forever by what they were about to do.

Then the moment had passed and silence had fallen between them once more. Franky's foot had started to tap restlessly. She hadn't known she had planted a seed that would grow audaciously when fed by Bridget's fertile intellect.

When Jenna had asked for Franky's help, Bridget had encouraged her to go. Then she called Ferguson hoping she had memorised the number correctly. She wasn't even sure Ferguson would pick up the call and sat tensely waiting while it connected. She just hoped she could pull this off without getting herself killed.

"Yes?" she heard suddenly. It was a terse greeting as though she was an unwelcome interruption.

"I want to do a deal, Joan," Bridget said immediately. "I have something to offer." She wondered if Ferguson would recognise her voice.

"I doubt that," Ferguson said dismissively.

"I'll be at my house, meet me there," Bridget instructed. "I think you know where it is," she added drily. She resisted the urge to say more. She wanted to lure Ferguson in, have her curious, and leave her wondering. So she disconnected the call.

Before going home she visited her friend Richard. He had been an IT expert before throwing it all in to follow more creative pursuits. She asked him to use those skills now and do her an incredibly big favour.  By the time she arrived home it was almost dark. The house was silent. She opened up her laptop and quickly wrote an email to Detective McNally. Then she proceeded to write a psychological assessment of Joan Ferguson. It took some time. She kept expecting to hear her doorbell ring but no one came. When she had finished the report she sent it to print.  While she was waiting she put on the kettle. As she stood next to it waiting for it to boil she thought about Franky, about what she had said. She thought about what Franky had given her, it overwhelmed her and yet Franky still felt indebted to her. She turned to get a mug from the cupboard and saw her.

Joan Ferguson was standing in her kitchen, less than a metre away, watching her with keen, assessing eyes. Bridget gasped. "How did you get in here?" She demanded, already feeling rattled and off-balance by Ferguson's surprise appearance. "I changed the locks."

"Yes, very wise of you," Joan Ferguson agreed with a supercilious smile. "But you forgot about the automatic door on your garage."

Bridget mentally cursed. She had been so careful to protect her home and keep herself safe. She had completely forgotten about the garage door. Since the Porsche had been stolen she hadn't been using it. The internal access door from the garage to the hallway had no lock on it. Ferguson must have taken the remote for the roller door from the car and used it to gain entry. The combined noise from the printer and the kettle had masked against the sound of the door opening. First points to Ferguson, she acknowledged. She had to be careful, she realised, not to under-estimate her. She was lucky Ferguson hadn't decided to just kill her there and then.

"I didn't think you were coming," Bridget said. She felt cornered with the tall ex-governor blocking the only entrance to the kitchen area. She had forgotten just how intimidating her physical presence could be.

"I had to ensure you were alone. I would be a fool just to walk in without being sure it wasn't a trap."

"It's not," Bridget said.

"Perhaps," Ferguson studied her. "You might be recording our conversation."

"That's more your style," Bridget said pointedly.

"Your phone," Ferguson put out her hand. When Bridget handed it over the other woman checked it wasn't recording then turned it to silent. "We don't want to be interrupted," she said. She was studying Bridget. "How do I know you're not wired?"

"You can pat me down," Bridget offered, holding out her arms. She thought the idea would repulse the ex-governor who had displayed many signs of her OCD during her time at Wentworth.

"No," Ferguson said, "strip."

"I beg your pardon?" Bridget stared at her.

"Take your clothes off so I can ensure our conversation is private," Ferguson made her meaning clear, "or no deal," she added as Bridget hesitated.

Fuck it, thought Bridget, she'd had gynaecologists inspecting her fanny. Stripping in front of Ferguson could be no more humiliating than that she decided. She pulled off her work clothes with the same attitude she took in the change room at the gym, efficient and purposeful actions designed to keep her nakedness to a minimum. When she was standing in her bra and underwear she looked defiantly at Ferguson.

"Everything," Ferguson said softly. Bridget had no choice. She felt those black eyes on her breasts then lower, she kept her hands by her side.

"Satisfied?" Bridget asked, she suspected Ferguson was never fully satisfied, certainly sexually. If her intent had been to humiliate the psychologist then she had failed.

"Get dressed," she said dismissively. "And tell me why I shouldn't kill you."

"Because I'm prepared to testify on your behalf in court," Bridget told her as she pulled on her clothes.

Ferguson laughed. "You're ruined professionally, your reputation is in tatters, your testimony is worthless. Don't waste my time."

"I've been cleared," Bridget told her with a smile. "I received advice from the Chair of the Board today."

Bridget could see she had thrown Ferguson. "I don't believe it," she said at last.

"I can show you the letter, it's on my laptop," Bridget offered. Ferguson gave a curt nod.

Bridget eased round her with relief and went over to the coffee table where she had left her laptop. She brought up the email and opened the PDF attachment. Ferguson read the formal letter that confirmed the Board could find no case to answer and would not be taking any further action against the psychologist.

It must have been a blow but Ferguson didn't show it. She was silent as she assessed the implications of this turn of events. "Even more reason to kill you," she said at last.

"You could kill me," Bridget acknowledged, "but you'll be on the run, in hiding, constantly looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Isn't the better option to take your chances in court? You obviously think you can win from everything you've said, and then you'll be free to get on with your life. So much more satisfying to prove everyone wrong, wouldn't you say?"

"There's Sarah's death," Ferguson said pointedly. "I know you've made a statement to the police." So Ferguson had been following the news as Franky had suspected.

"I've withdrawn my statement to the police," Bridget told her. She showed her the email she had written to the detective earlier.

"What is stopping Franky Doyle from testifying?"

"She didn't see anything," Bridget assured her. "She only has my word that you were even at the flat. You hit her from behind, she didn't even know it was you that did it. Her testimony would never stand up in court."

"How do I know you'll testify in my favour?"

"I've written a statement," Bridget collected the papers off the printer and handed them to Ferguson. "I think you'll be satisfied."

Ferguson read the document in full. She tossed it down on the kitchen bench. For a moment Bridget thought she was rejecting it. "Why the sudden change of heart?" She asked.

"I don't want to die," Bridget conceded with a rueful smile, "and I'm tired of constantly looking over my shoulder, and I don't want Franky to be caught in the crossfire."

"How touching," Ferguson said with a small tight smile.

"I'm sure you of all people understand the lengths a person will go to protect someone they care about," Bridget said with a knowing look.

"Of course you say all this now," Ferguson continued, ignoring Bridget's comment, "but what is stopping you taking the stand and changing your story, saying I coerced you?"

"Nothing," Bridget said with a smile. "You're just going to have to trust me."

Ferguson laughed softly. She remembered saying those same words to the psychologist. "Touché."

Bridget had a sudden idea. "It's a pity you gave up that tape of Franky's confession," she said with a slight smile.

Ferguson leant forward and smiled in return. "There's a copy," she whispered.

"You mean the one you gave to Will Jackson? This one?" Bridget took the silver thumb drive from the bowl on the kitchen bench. The look on Ferguson's face told her everything she needed to know. It was a face contorted with rage. She lunged at Bridget, swiping at the thumb drive, snatching it out of her hand. Bridget let her have it. "It's been wiped," she told her.

Ferguson wasn't listening. She pushed the drive into a USB port on Bridget's laptop and searched the file list. "No, no, no," she was muttering anxiously.

Bridget knew she had to let Ferguson think she was still in control before she did anything rash like deciding she had nothing more to lose. She'd prefer it if she didn't have to pay for the information she had gained with her life. "Joan," she said calmly, "Joan, listen to me, I don't want to die so I'm willing to deal," she reminded her. "You don't need the tape."

"But I can't trust you," she spat through clenched teeth.

"Trust yourself then," Bridget suggested. She could see she had surprised Ferguson. "You manipulate people all the time, to do that you have to understand how people think, what makes them tick, you have to understand the psychology of people," Bridget pointed out. "So how good are you?" She asked with a smile. "What motivates me to act? Considering everything you know about me, and my past patterns of behaviour, how do you think this will end?" Bridget was relying on Ferguson's ego, that she would believe she was better at reading people than a trained psychologist. She held her breath.

"There's still the little matter of that note on Jodie Spiteri's file," Ferguson said at last, "or had you forgotten about that?" She was calm and collected once more, coolly calculating the risks.

Bridget hadn't but she had been hoping Ferguson had. She thought on her feet. "I can access the file at Wentworth. I will remove the note I made," she said. She could feel the scales tipping in her favour. She was so close.

"But there's a copy at the DPP," Ferguson reminded her.

"Franky has contacts in the legal profession," Bridget was free falling now and just hoping the parachute would open. "She can get hold of that copy and make it disappear."

"Why would she do that?" Ferguson asked sceptically.

"She'll do it for me," Bridget said quietly. Although privately she knew the cost of ever asking Franky to do such a thing.

"So I turn myself in and no one is the wiser about Sarah's death," Ferguson said meditatively. "How do I explain my absence?"

"That's your problem," Bridget said without regret. "Do you want to deal?"

Franky was already up when Erica appeared from the bedroom. The drugs in her system had made her sleep strangely heavy and she woke feeling lethargic and out of sorts. She had pulled on her silk robe and knotted it tightly around her waist. As she went to the bathroom she noticed Franky was in the kitchen making coffee, already dressed.

"What time is it?" She asked.

Franky looked up from her task. "Almost ten," she said, glancing at the microwave to confirm it. "Coffee?"

Erica mumbled something as she disappeared. Franky took it to mean yes. She poured the coffees and, leaving Erica's on the bench, went over to the couch. She picked up her phone and checked her messages. There was nothing from Bridget. She was about to call her when Erica reappeared. "Coffee's made," she said. "How are you?"

"I'll be better after this," she said, putting the coffee mug to her lips. "Thanks." She leant against the bench and watched Franky. "Do you have to study today?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Nothing, I just feel like going somewhere, doing something, anything really," she said vaguely. She needed to get out of the apartment.

Franky didn't answer.  She was distracted by an alert from her news App. "What the fuck!" She muttered incredulously, sitting up suddenly. She asked for the story but there wasn't much more information on the news website. She read it aloud.

"Last night Joan Ferguson, former Governor of the Wentworth Correctional Centre, walked into the Thomas Embling Psychiatric Institution nine days after she had escaped from that same facility. The police, who had been conducting a nation-wide manhunt for Ferguson, are mystified how she managed to elude them. Before her unexpected reappearance police had suspected she was the driver involved in a fatal car crash on the Great Ocean Road and were waiting on results from DNA analysis to confirm it. Ferguson, who is said to be extremely dangerous, has been charged with various offences including the murder of an inmate at Wentworth. Her trial date has not yet been set."

Franky looked at Erica. "What the fuck," she said again. "So, what, she just walks out of here last night and turns herself in?" She couldn't believe it. "Why would she do that?" She was looking at Erica as though she might have the answer.

"So it's over," Erica said.

"Yeah," Franky said as she called Bridget. The call went straight through to voicemail. "Gidge, you're not going to believe this, it's Ferguson, she's turned up, you're safe," she knew she wasn't making any sense. "Just turn on the news then ring me." She looked up to see Erica watching her but she didn't register the expression in her eyes because she was still too busy thinking about Ferguson. "Shit," she muttered in amazement. Then something dawned on her, what if Ferguson had gone after Bridget then turned herself in? Franky shook her head. No, it was more likely that Bridget was just not picking up. Except the last time she hadn't been answering her phone, Bridget had been in trouble. She stared at the coffee table, lost in thought. "Maybe I should go over there," she muttered eventually.

"Stop it, just stop it," Erica said suddenly.

"Stop what?" Franky asked blankly.

"This, what you're doing right now.  Are you here with me or off somewhere with Bridget bloody Westfall?"

"Huh?"

"You need to decide where you want to be!"

Franky didn't know where the bullets were coming from but it seemed very much like friendly fire.  She held up a cushion to fend off the verbal attack.

"It's this thing with Ferguson," Franky began to defend herself.

"No," Erica cut her off, "it's not.  It's you.  You're all over the place.  At Wentworth you had this burning intensity, you pursued me with passion, and it was alluring and tantalising.  I want that.  I want the girl who can't get me out of her head."

Franky was staring at her.

"Stop looking in the rearview mirror, Franky." She said with a sigh, dumping her coffee mug in the sink.

"So you want me to forget the past but at the same time be the girl I was at Wentworth?" Erica didn't answer.  "Well, I'm confused," Franky said with a sigh, putting the cushion onto her thigh and holding it there.  "Because that doesn't make sense."

Erica refused to play the logic game with Franky. "God, what am I doing?" She muttered. "I'm so into with you," she said with exasperation.  "I'm smitten.  Do you know what I thought when Ferguson had me bound and helpless?  That I wanted you to risk everything to save me, even as I was telling Ferguson you wouldn't come I was hoping you would.  It turns out I'm just like any other girl, I want the fairytale and you're my fairytale, Franky.  You're the one." She declared with a rueful smile even as her eyes shone with tears and emotion.

"But instead of the fairytale I get the Franky who's unsure, and distracted, and wants to be elsewhere half the time.  Jesus, you are in love with her and you don't even realise it."

Franky stood up and crossed the gap between them in a heartbeat.  Her mouth was on Erica's kissing her.  "Shut up, shut up," she said desperately as she pulled away only to reclaim Erica's lips a moment later.  They kissed and it was frantic and urgent. Franky's intensity forcing Erica to step backwards and she felt the hard edge of the island bench. Erica could feel her back bending unnaturally and resisting. She tried to shift her position.

To Franky it felt as though Erica was struggling against her, against the kiss. It was only last night, she remembered, that Erica had been bound and assaulted by Ferguson. She pulled away suddenly. When she caught Erica's eye she saw confusion there. Maybe she had even confirmed to Erica her suspicions of Franky's ambivalence.   "I don't want you to feel like you're being assaulted," Franky muttered in explanation.

Erica took her words to mean something else. "Oh for fuck's sake!" She exclaimed with frustration. "I wish I'd never used that word!  I didn't mean it!  I take it back, once and for all, I take it back." She grabbed Franky's top and pulled her close.  'If this is the last time we are going to have sex Franky then I want it to be fantastic, and furious, and desperate, and dirty." She punctuated her words with kisses.  "So you better not hold back," she warned. She grabbed Franky's belt and undid it. She kissed her neck then her throat. She undid Franky's loose fitting shirt while kissing her and slid her hands across Franky's shoulders and down her back pushing the shirt off. Now Franky was just wearing a pair of frayed cutoffs, a black bra and her ink. "You are incredibly hot," Erica said with open admiration. Franky leaned in and kissed her, claiming that mouth with urgency. She grabbed Erica and lifted her up onto the bench, sliding her across the cold hard granite surface. Erica's silk robe was slippery under her hands. She found the knot in the sash that held it all together and her nimble fingers worked quickly to untie it. The material gaped and Franky caught the first glimpse of Erica's smooth soft flesh. She trailed kisses across her flat stomach then glanced up to see that Erica was watching her. She ran her warm tongue over Erica's nipple then took it briefly into her mouth pulling on it slightly with her teeth as she let it go. She heard Erica moan softly. She stood back and pulled her belt from around her waist. She saw those blue eyes were still watching her, fascinated. She slapped Erica playfully across the thigh with the soft leather, a testing blow to gauge her reaction. Erica gasped softly. Franky kissed the inside of her thighs. "Again," Erica whispered. This time the strap left a slight red mark and Erica jumped slightly. Next time Franky teased her nipples as she slapped her. Then her fingers went lower and found a very different reaction. Erica was clearly enjoying herself. Franky stimulated her interspersed with sharp stinging slaps. Her breathing was rapid shallow gasps punctuated with sharp cries until Franky began to use her tongue to tease her. There were too many sensations for her body to handle. They were colliding into each other and exploding inside her like waves crashing against rocks. Wave after wave, each one more powerful until the last one receded and she was left floating. "Fucking fantastic," she murmured, "top marks."

"Already?" Franky asked, speaking for the first time, "but that was only the starter." She held up a granite pestle and Erica's eyes widened. The mortar and pestle were a recent acquisition, purchased by Franky as a present because apparently no kitchen should be without one. Now Erica had no idea if she was joking.

On Sunday afternoon Bridget and Richard took Jasper out for a walk while they debriefed. They took advantage of the warm weather and went to the beach at St Kilda where dogs were allowed lead free. Then she and Richard shared a bottle of wine and tapas. She felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. They laughed quite a bit as Richard regaled her with stories about his exhibition and some of the characters in the art world.

When she arrived home she found Franky perched on her front porch waiting for her. "Did you get my messages?" She asked as she stood up.

"Yeah," Bridget replied with a soft sigh. She closed the gate behind her.

"You ever gonna call me?" Franky asked in an impatient tone which masked her disappointment. "Huh?"

"Why don't you come inside?" She suggested. She slipped past Franky to the door. She could feel Franky behind her, all frustrated energy and questions. "Would you like a drink?"

Franky accepted a beer. As she took a mouthful she watched Bridget with those intelligent eyes. She put the beer down and leaned against the bench, eyes never wavering. "So what happened?" She asked at last. "I know Ferguson didn't just decide to chuck in the towel," she added. Franky was sure of it.

"No," Bridget acknowledged quietly.

"It was you who called her," Franky said. "And offered her some kinda deal." She had analysed everything she knew and that was the only answer she could come up with. "What was it?"

"How did you know about the call?" Bridget couldn't see how Franky would know that unless, "were you with Ferguson?" She asked incredulously.

"Erica was," Franky said. She let the implications sink in.

"I," Bridget stopped and just looked at her helplessly.

"You were wrong," Franky said flatly.

Bridget could hear a simmering emotion at the edge of her tone. She couldn't defend herself. Clearly she had been wrong but even now it surprised her. Psychopaths do not kill randomly, and there was no reason for Joan Ferguson to consider Erica Davidson a threat. "You're angry with me," Bridget acknowledged, "I told you she'd be safe and she wasn't. Did Ferguson hurt her?"

"No, your phone call distracted her," Franky acknowledged.

The ramifications sank in. She suspected the only reason Franky was still talking to her was because her phone call had unwittingly saved Erica. There was a certain irony in that which Bridget hadn't missed but mainly she just felt relief. Having Erica Davidson's death on her conscious as well as Sarah Carson's would have affected her deeply.

"How the hell did you convince Ferguson to turn herself in?"

Bridget told her while Franky propped on one of the kitchen stools and drank beer. When she reached the point of taking her clothes off Franky drew in her breath dramatically. "No! You had to offer her your body!" She said in mock disbelief.

"Franky," Bridget smiled reluctantly, "seriously."

Franky laughed. Somehow it had worked out much better than she'd expected. No one had actually been hurt and Ferguson was safely locked up. She could joke about it now.

"Hang on, you told me you hadn't heard from the Psych Board," she said when Bridget had finished.

"Yeah," Bridget let out a small sigh.

"You were lying," Franky realised. The chasm between her and Bridget just seemed to get wider each time she looked.

"No," Bridget said hastily. "I lied to Ferguson. Everything was hanging on her thinking I had some value."

Franky was surprised. "And she believed you, just like that?" She raised her eyebrows. "Shit! You must be good," she said with a smile.

"Not exactly," Bridget conceded, "not until I showed her an email with a letter from the Chair of the Board."

"You faked a letter? To a standard good enough to fool Ferguson? How?" Bridget was silent. "How did you do it?"

"I can't tell you," Bridget said regretfully. "Suffice to say I broke the law and someone helped me." It was all she was prepared to say.

"Yeah, I bet," Franky murmured. "Fraud, cybercrime, you're talking two years imprisonment. Less if you have a good lawyer," she added with a grin. "You never know, you might get lucky."

Bridget couldn't help smiling. "Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that. Anyway, it was the only way to convince her," Bridget defended herself.

Franky wasn't going to criticise. She admired Bridget's feat. She'd pulled off something incredible, and having seen how well Ferguson could outmanoeuvre people just made her achievement even more impressive. She was disappointed Bridget hadn't confided in her but that was purely on a personal level. Obviously Bridget had assessed her chances and believed she could pull it off. All kudos to her. Franky would have done the same if their positions had been reversed.

"It was genius," Franky said with admiration. Then without warning she pulled Bridget into her arms. "You're a fucking genius!" She whispered in her ear as she held her. Then just as suddenly she let go.  She stared at Bridget's open, honest countenance, with its slightly questioning expression, straight into those compassionate blue eyes as Erica's words repeated in her head.

"Franky?" Bridget was watching her. She felt the mood shift as a sudden expectant tension filled the air between them.

Franky didn't answer.  She picked up her beer only to find it was empty.  She put it down again.

Bridget got two more beers from the fridge and offered one to Franky.  "It was your idea actually," Bridget told her with a smile.  "I'd never have thought of it without you."

"Mine?"  Franky smiled in return.  "Nah," she said as she opened her beer and flicked the cap neatly into the sink.  "I'm pretty sure I never suggested you take on Ferguson solo."  Franky had always been thinking of a physical tussle though, she hadn't realised Bridget would change the game to play to her strengths.

"You said we should give her what she wants, remember?"

"I was joking."  Franky rolled her eyes and drank more beer.

"But you were right," Bridget told her.  "Ferguson wanted her day in court.  I realised I could give her that if she believed I had legitmacy.  So that's what I offered her."  It sounded easy when she said it aloud.

"You still had to pull it off in the moment," Franky was fully aware of what Bridget had managed to accomplish, "and make Ferguson believe you were sincere."  She began to consider some of the trade-offs associated with it.  "Of course now she has a signed document from you as insurance, that will make it pretty hard to flip on the stand without losing professional credibility," she pointed out.

"If I'm deregistered I won't have any credibility anyway," Bridget said with a shrug.

"You know we're right back where this whole thing started."  Franky said suddenly.

"Not exactly," Bridget told her.  "I haven't told you the best bit."

"What's that then?" Franky asked, smiling. "I'm already impressed, you know."

"Well, this is going to amaze you." Bridget put her beer down, cleared her throat, and paused to appreciate the audience. "I also found out that there are no more copies of your confession," she declared. "You're in the clear, from Ferguson at least."

"How can you be sure?" Franky wasn't as excited as Bridget. She sounded sceptical. "Ferguson can't be trusted."

Bridget tried to reassure her. "She lost the plot when she realised I had Will's copy. She demonstrated all the classic signs of a psychopath who has lost control. Trust me I'm sure, Franky."

"Like you were sure she wouldn't go after Erica?" Franky asked.

"Franky," Bridget pleaded. "Everything told me she wouldn't." She took a deep breath. "I still don't think she would have hurt her."

Franky expelled her breath in disbelief. "She fucking doped her and tied her up."

"Okay," Bridget accepted that.

"We don't know what she would have done if you hadn't called her," Franky told her.

"No, we don't," agreed Bridget. "We don't know what her intent was," she pointed out.

"I think it was pretty clear," Franky said drily.

"I don't," Bridget refuted.

"You just don't want to admit you were wrong."  Franky took a mouthful of her beer.

"And you just want me to," Bridget was getting annoyed.  

"Hey, I'm just pointing out the facts," Franky protested, holding up her hands, ignoring the warning signs.

"And I'm telling you what my instincts are saying based on all my professional knowledge and experience! If you don't trust that then you don't trust me." The words hung in the air between them. "Maybe you should just go," Bridget said after a moment. All the euphoria had gone out of her and she felt flat, and emotional, and exhausted. She felt like crying.

Franky stared at her, silent and still spinning from the speed with which things had deteriorated between them.  "No," she said after a moment, "I don't want to go," she said stubbornly.  "I want to have this out."

"I don't," Bridget said softly.

Franky knew then it was pointless.  She picked up her phone.  "I guess we're done then," she said.

 


	19. A Tangled Web

* * *

Franky was sitting on the couch of her newly acquired flat with her feet propped on the coffee table staring at her revision notes, trying to concentrate. All she could hear was the ridiculously loud ticking of the clock in the kitchen. It was distracting. Who still had clocks these days other than pensioners, she wondered. After years of constant background noise she suddenly discovered she couldn't concentrate without it. It was too quiet, and knowing someone wasn't about to interrupt at any second made it worse. Her last exam was on Tuesday morning and she wanted to ace it. Right now though she wondered whether she'd even pass it. She made an effort to refocus. Five minutes later she tossed the paper down. It wasn't happening, she decided.

She sent a text to Erica asking if she wanted to do something. The reply was a brief, "I'm busy." Franky sighed and tossed her phone onto the coffee table. Erica was pissed off with her and she knew why after her rant. Franky couldn't dismiss her words, much as she had denied them in the moment. Bridget was precious to her. She hated that Bridget thought she didn't trust her when the opposite was true. She hadn't known why she had suddenly hugged her, only that she knew she wanted to. She felt such a connection with Bridget it had overwhelmed her. Now she wished she hadn't let go. Then maybe she wouldn't have pushed Bridget so hard. So what if Bridget had called it wrong, Franky knew there hadn't been any malicious intent. Bridget had said what she believed was right. She had even encouraged Franky to call Erica to make sure she was okay. If she was being honest, Franky knew she was angry with herself for ignoring her instincts, for not picking up on the safe word, for letting Erica down. She had taken all that out on Bridget, unfairly. Now she wasn't sure how things stood between them. Ferguson had been dealt with and she had no excuse to contact Bridget anymore, or any reason for Bridget to continue their association. Franky was very much afraid they had come to the end of their journey.

She thought about what Bridget had said to her once, that people came into your life for all sorts of reasons and they wouldn't always stay. There were some who would never leave although their influence might change. While others would leave only to return at various points in her journey, drifting in and out like the tide. Then there would be those who would appear in her life only once, to help her or guide her, and when that need was met she would drift away from them. None of these were more or less important than the others except in how she viewed their influence. A person who was only with you a short time could have an enormous and lasting impact on your life.

Franky couldn't help wondering if Bridget would be one of those whose impact would be great but would stay only a moment. Although Bridget's philosophical words were meant to give her comfort, now Franky felt hollow at the thought of them.

She picked up her notes again. Fuck it, she would ace that exam, transfer to law, and become a shit hot lawyer. End of story.

Erica was going out with Louisa Kelly for their aborted celebration. As it was Monday night they settled for a casual drink at a bar Louisa had suggested. "Champagne at least," Erica stipulated, "it's the drink of celebrations."

"Okay," agreed Louisa, "champagne and a good story, my kind of night out."

"What story?" Erica asked.

"The one you're going to tell me to explain why you stood me up the other night. And it better be good or you're buying the drinks all night," Louisa warned.

Beeps sounded in Erica's ear. "I've got another call," she said with a smile in her voice, "I'll see you there." She hung up and the next call connected immediately.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Ben asked without greeting. He had left numerous messages asking her to call over the last couple of days, each one escalating in urgency.

"Hello Ben," Erica replied. She had ignored his messages. She didn't want to talk to him until she had something lined up in the job department.

"I offered you your job back Erica, if you recall," he said, his anger seeping through despite his obvious attempt to control it. "So I don't understand the purpose of your email."

Erica frowned. "What email?" She asked blankly.

She heard him forcefully expel his breath. "You've got some nerve!"

"Ben," she said a little impatiently, "I haven't a clue what you're talking about, and I'm busy so I suggest you park your aggression and tell me what you want."

"Isn't this about what you want Erica? Wasn't that the whole point of the email?" Then his voice dropped as though not wanting to be overheard. "You think you can blackmail me?"

Erica was now completely mystified. "Have you been drinking?" She asked.

"For fuck's sake, Erica," he hissed, "I'm warning you!" He sounded like a man on the edge. "Look, whatever it is, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement," he said more calmly although the tone was laced with desperation.

"An arrangement about what?" Erica said blankly. "I told you Ben, I'm not sure what my next step is," she said firmly.

"I think you've made it abundantly clear with that email," Ben said sarcastically. "I cannot believe you are doing this. No matter how things ended between us professionally, we were friends before we worked together."

"What email? I haven't sent you an email!" Erica exclaimed, completely exasperated.

"Of course you did. It's from your email, Erica, to my personal email account," Ben told her. " It came from you."

"No, I didn't send you any emails," Erica said with certainty.

"Friday evening," Ben said. "At 8.12pm"

Erica was about to deny it again. There was no way she could have sent any email, she had been at the mercy of Joan Ferguson at that precise moment. Then a thought struck her. "What did it say, this email?"

"You know what it said, nothing, it just had the photos attached," Ben replied. "Are you telling me you've forgotten?" He asked with sarcasm.

"I didn't send you an email, Ben," Erica repeated firmly, "but," she conceded, "it's possible someone had access to my account briefly." She remembered her laptop sitting on the kitchen bench, in sleep mode, without any password protection. It would be easy to access her email.

"Who?" He demanded immediately.

"Joan Ferguson," Erica said with a sigh. There was silence at the other end of the line. "Jesus," she muttered as the implications became clear. "What did she send you?" She asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. None of this boded well.

"Fucking hell!" There was something in Ben's voice she had never heard before. It sounded like defeat. "Jesus fucking Christ! I'm finished."

He said it with such certainty, a foreboding of doom, that Erica felt some sympathy for the man. "Why? What was in the email?" She asked.

"Not on the phone," he said suddenly. "Meet me somewhere."

"I can't meet you, I have to be somewhere," she made a quick decision. "I can come to your house later," she offered.

"No, not the house," Ben said quickly although she had been to his house on many occasions in the past. "I'll text you where," he said. Erica heard the line go dead.

Louisa was buying the drinks. She had to admit Erica's story was worthy of at least a drink or two and she suspected she had only heard the sanitised version.

"You seem very calm about it," Louisa told her at the end of it. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know," Erica admitted. "It was terrifying in the moment. Ferguson is," she searched for the word, "malevolent. Then without warning it was all over. Now it just seems surreal."

"What did she want?" Louisa asked the million dollar question. "I mean at the hospital Franky seemed convinced Bridget was the one in danger."

"Good question," Erica sipped her champagne and speculated. It wasn't about her, that was abundantly clear. Initially she had thought Ferguson had some unhealthy, bizarre obsession with Franky. All that stuff about reading her letters, understanding her, being convinced Franky would come all sounded like symptoms of that. Tonight, however, her motive seemed more material than that. She had never heard Ben sound so panicked, even when politically the shit was hitting the fan.  So panicked in fact that he had forgotten to ask what Joan Ferguson was doing anywhere near her email account. After his call she had checked her sent mail then her deleted folder but she couldn't find the email in question. She couldn't even fathom what Joan Ferguson might have planned. Regardless she wasn't about to reveal anything to Louisa, a woman she barely knew. "I have no idea." She said at last. She saw Louisa wasn't going to stop there. "Let's not talk about it anymore," she pleaded.

To Louisa's credit she let it go gracefully and changed the subject. "I wanted to ask you something actually," she said immediately. "You can say no," she added with a smile.

"What is it?" Erica asked curiously. Louisa could intrigue her without any obvious effort.

"My organisation has to write up a funding application for this money the Minister has promised. I imagine it is in my best interests to prepare a proposal that is a solid, competitive bid to remove any conjecture that my project has somehow bypassed proper process," she paused, waiting for Erica to confirm her assumption. Erica realised Louisa Kelly had a very good understanding of how the government operated. She nodded. "Well, who better to prepare that proposal than someone who has an intimate knowledge of those processes," she continued. "You could write an application that addresses all the criteria and put forward a strong case against each because you know exactly what the Minister is looking for."

"You want me to write a funding proposal for the Open Pathways project?" Erica clarified. She hadn't expected the conversation to turn in the direction of a job offer.

"You haven't decided what you'll do next, have you?" Erica shook her head. "Then you have some capacity. I'll hire you as a consultant. It will tide you over until you decide. It's a win-win," Louisa told her with a persuasive smile.

Erica could see the merit in it. She still had bills to pay and this would give her an opportunity to see if working for Louisa was something she might seriously contemplate. "Yes, all right," she agreed.

Louisa's fascinating eyes glinted with satisfaction. "Excellent!" She held up her champagne. "Here's to a successful partnership."

Erica liked the sound of that. It had never felt like a partnership with Ben. He had been very much the boss despite his reliance on her expertise. "Partners," she said, smiling in return.

"We should celebrate," Louisa said promptly, draining her glass and standing up. "I'll get a bottle."

Erica wondered just how big this night was going to get. "I have to meet someone later," she warned, but Louisa just waved her hand dismissively. She mouthed something as she headed to the bar. It could have been, you'll be fine or it'll be fine, but Erica suspected that neither would be the case. She felt very much as though Louisa was managing proceedings and she was there for the ride. She wondered suddenly how Franky was spending the evening. Her response to Franky's text earlier had been abrupt. They hadn't discussed her outburst from the other day. The sex had distracted them both, conveniently, Erica guessed afterwards. She felt unsure. There were times when she felt close to Franky. In those moments everything felt right between them. The problem was she had no idea how Franky felt about her beyond desire. She sipped her champagne, lost in thought until she saw Louisa Kelly weaving her way through the crowd towards her. Instead of a bottle she had cocktails, four of them, and looked so comfortable juggling the load that Erica suspected this was a regular occurrence. She wouldn't think about Franky anymore tonight, she decided. She would have a few drinks and relax. She smiled as Louisa deposited her bounty on the table. "I've ordered some food," she said as she sat down. "They do really good Asian street food here, the soft shell crab buns are sensational, you have to try one."

"Cocktails?" Erica asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Just what you need after your ordeal," she said reassuringly. "This one's vanilla vodka, passion fruit and champers," she said as she handed one to Erica. "It reminded me of you." The eyes danced and the Irish accent charmed her.

Of course she was late to her rendezvous with the Minister. He didn't appreciate it but given he needed her help he was hardly in a position to complain. Once he showed her the email, it became abundantly clear why a meeting at his home wasn't an option. The photos were extremely compromising. They were images of Ben having sex with a young attractive woman.

"The fucking bitch must have set me up," he muttered with his head in his hands. Erica suddenly felt much more sober.

"So they're not fakes?" She asked, studying them closely.

"You've got to help me," he pleaded, suddenly lifting his head and looking at her with imploring eyes.

"Help you how, Ben?" Erica asked blankly.

"What does Ferguson want? I mean she must want something, otherwise why go to all this trouble? You need to speak to her," he insisted.

Erica froze. There was no way she could speak to Joan Ferguson, not after what she had gone through. Not so soon, it would be too confronting. "No, I can't," she said immediately.

"You can," he insisted. "I need you to do this for me, Erica," he pleaded. "You're a lawyer and you're a friend, you're the only one I can trust with this!" He rubbed his hand through his hair.

"Earlier tonight you accused me of blackmailing you," Erica pointed out. He must think she was an idiot, that or he was so desperate he was scrambling.

"I know you have political aspirations," he said suddenly, "what do you want? I'll give you anything. I'll put your name forward as the candidate for the next safe liberal seat, I'll back you all the way into parliament if you need me to, just do this one thing for me."

In that moment Erica saw how desperation made the most powerful men seem weak. She couldn't understand why Ben was so desperate. Those photos might end his marriage if they got out into the public domain, and possibly even lose him his Ministry but Ben's offer seemed out of proportion to the risks involved with exposure. There had to be something else. She looked again at the photos. What was it that had him so panicked?

"No," she said after a moment, "I don't think I can." She studied him then placed the photos between them. "There's something you're not telling me. I can't meet Joan Ferguson without knowing the whole story, she'll blindside me." She could see from his reaction, she had called it correctly. "If you want me to do this then you have got to trust me, Ben."

His reluctance was so obvious. She pushed back her chair and stood up. "All right," he said begrudgingly. She sat back down and watched as he seemed to shrink away from her, away from the idea of what he would reveal. "She's underage," he said in a low voice, refusing to meet her eyes. Erica hadn't been expecting that. She looked again at the photos. It wasn't definitive. "I didn't know I swear," he went on.

The story, when Erica managed to extract it, sounded almost cliched. Ben had been at a dinner and one of the waitresses had gotten friendly with him, had suggested continuing the party. He ended up in bed with her and another girl, the one in the photos. He had been so out of it he claimed, that he barely remembered anything, and now suspected his drink had been spiked. He didn't know the waitress had been taking photos. He had passed out at some point and woke up alone.

"How do you know she was underage?" Erica asked, her lawyer mind looking for possible angles to exploit.

"Because they left a message in permanent marker on my chest saying so," he told her. "No doubt Ferguson has a photo of it." He said bitterly.

"So it's only their word," Erica clarified. "You haven't checked?"

"I only knew their first names, and they could be fake," he told her. "I bet Ferguson knows who they are," he added sourly. Erica was certain of it.

On Tuesday Franky received a text from Erica inviting her out for dinner. "I'm going to treat you so dress up."

Franky smiled. She was a little curious to see where Erica would take her. Now her exams were over she was all too ready to celebrate. Erica, she decided, must be over her grumps. She settled for a simple black sleeveless dress which finished mid thigh and hugged her figure. She added some funky Art Deco costume jewellery and heels. Erica thought she looked incredible.

"So where are you taking me?" Franky asked as she got into the Audi. "Somewhere fancy huh?"

"You'll see," Erica said with a smile.

The restaurant was in Collingwood. Franky looked around as they were taken to their table. "Are you sure you can afford this place?" She asked in an undertone. "You don't have a job, remember?" They took their seats at a small, intimate table which was tucked out of the way. The lighting was soft and tea lights flickered on the table between them. "You're not planning on skipping out without paying, are you?" Franky teased.

Erica smiled. "I have a job," was all she said.

Franky raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

"Louisa Kelly offered me one," Erica said nonchalantly as she opened her menu.

"Louisa Kelly," Franky repeated, amused. She made an effort to curtail her smile.

"I went out with her last night," Erica revealed as she studied the menu. She glanced up to find Franky was watching her and she couldn't read the expression in those green eyes. "We went dancing," she added, suddenly curious to know how Franky might react to that news.

"Are you trying to make me jealous?" Franky asked as her smile broadened.

"Are you jealous?" Erica asked after a moment.

Franky laughed. "Should I be?"

Erica frowned. The answer to that was an unhesitating, unquestionable yes. The disappointment was sudden and sharp. She was left with a fear that she was in far deeper than Franky would ever be. It was clear that Franky was no more jealous than straight.

The waiter appeared and they were distracted ordering drinks and listening to the chef's specials. Franky picked her courses quickly but Erica deliberated, unsure and put the waiter through his paces with a series of questions.

"Something's happened," Erica said when he'd left.

"With Louisa?" Franky's jaw dropped. For a split second she thought she had misread Erica, the situation and her own feelings. For a moment she did feel jealous.

"With Ferguson," Erica clarified. "I need your help."

Franky raised her eyebrows and smiled at Erica, managing to look surprised and knowing at the same time. "Yeah?"

So far the evening wasn't panning out as Franky had expected. She had thought the intimate setting was a deliberate ploy by Erica to ensure she had a captive audience, to ensure Franky wouldn't avoid the conversation Erica clearly wanted to have. Now it seemed Erica had a different agenda entirely and Franky relaxed slightly.

Erica told her about the latest developments without revealing the nature of the blackmail. Franky wasn't as surprised as Erica had been. She even laughed softly to herself acknowledging the sheer audacity.

Her first thought had been that Bridget had been right to question Ferguson's intent. None of this had ever been about Erica except for Erica's ability to give Ferguson direct and personal access to the Minister. Blackmail, it was so obvious now she thought about it, and so typically Ferguson. It was clear now why she had walked so casually back into her padded cell. It had nothing to do with Bridget's deal. She had always planned to return. Franky was almost certain Ferguson's game plan was to walk out again a free woman without having answered to one of the charges against her.

"You said you needed help?" Franky said, a question in her voice. She didn't know why. The game had twisted away from her with this latest development. Ferguson's eye was on a bigger, more influential fish.

"I've agreed to speak to Ferguson," Erica told her. She sipped her drink to distract herself from the expression on Franky's face.

"Why?"

"Ben needs a go between and he trusts me," Erica explained.

"Your ex-boss is a pig, Erica," Franky said bluntly.

"In your opinion," Erica added for her.

"He treats you like shit," Franky pointed out. "So why would you help him?"

Erica put down her wine glass. She didn't answer the question directly. She didn't want to admit to Franky that Ben's offer had tempted her. She tried a different tack. "Look, you may not like him but honestly, if you had to choose sides would you really choose Ferguson?" She asked sincerely, a small frown creasing her brow.

Franky shook her head slightly. She knew she was being manipulated. "It's not about sides," she pointed out. "Ferguson is a fucking psycho. Anyone who gets in her way pays," she said definitively.

"So you won't help me," Erica stated, drawing her own conclusions from Franky's words.

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying?" Franky asked with frustration. "Fuck Erica, you've seen what she's like!"

Erica knew Ferguson was too clever to risk going in there without being forearmed. "Yes, and you know Ferguson far better than I ever will. I need information, and support, Franky.  I don't want to go in there without that. Right now Ferguson has the edge over me." She had been at her mercy, completely vulnerable, and that gave Ferguson the emotional and psychological edge. "You can change that." The green eyes studied her thoughtfully.

Erica sounded determined to go ahead regardless of Franky's warnings or even her own reluctance. Maybe, she thought suddenly, this was about Erica proving to herself that she had the nerve to face Ferguson after everything that had happened.  "You don't need me," she said at last. "You need Bridget." Erica baulked at the idea. She shook her head slightly. "Yeah, you do," Franky said firmly. "She is the only one capable of outwitting Ferguson. She understands her." Franky crossed her arms. She looked combative, at odds with her sexy, edgy appearance.

"She won't help me," Erica pointed out. Franky hadn't witnessed the clash of words where Bridget Westfall had made her contempt obvious.

"Yeah she will," Franky refuted. "You don't get Bridget, you never have."

It sounded like a damning indictment to Erica's ears. She wanted to argue, justify herself yet again to Franky, but she knew it was a lost battle. It was something they would never agree on. She sighed. "Ask her then," she said at last, knowing it was futile.

"I will," Franky replied, sure that it wasn't.

After dinner they left the car insitu and began walking back to Franky's flat hoping to flag a taxi.  It was a mild evening and they enjoyed being out amongst the other revellers.  They walked in silence, both preoccupied with their own thoughts.  

"So what's Ferguson got on the Minister?" Franky asked eventually. Erica had been deliberately vague and it made her wonder.

"Can't you guess?" Erica didn't want to betray Ben's confidence but if Franky worked it out she wouldn't deny it either.

"Something that will finish his career," Franky speculated, fishing. Erica remained silent. "Worse," she realised. She whistled silently.

"He was set up," Erica told her.

"Sure he was," Franky said, her tone was sceptical belying her words. "Do you think this will get you your job back?" She asked. "Is that why you're prepared to do it?"

"I'm never going to work for Ben again," Erica assured her.

"Good," she replied emphatically. "Politics is a shit game." Franky was thinking about her own time at the top, and fighting to stay there. "It fucks with your head." She didn't expand further but Erica surmised they had both been losers in the game of prison politics.

It wasn't until later after Franky had suggested Erica stay over so she could cook her breakfast, and they were in bed almost asleep that Erica felt Franky's warm arm slide across her waist and pull her close. "Maybe I'm a little jealous," she confessed in a whisper.  

Erica's heart flooded with relief and happiness.  The night was suddenly a perfect night. 

The next afternoon Franky leant against a row of lockers, a cheeky smile on her face. "You stalking me, are you?"

Bridget looked up. "This is my gym, Franky," she pointed out, seemingly unsurprised by the unexpected appearance of her ex.

"Oh yeah," Franky acknowledged, still smiling, as though she hadn't known that all along. Bridget was conscious that Franky continued to lean against the locker watching her as Bridget changed into her gym gear.

Franky had been swimming in the gym's outdoor pool, Bridget guessed from the wet hair, bikini and towel draped over her shoulder. Beads of water still clung to her skin magnifying it and giving her an Amazon-like appearance. She wondered if her choice of pool and her timing had been deliberate. Franky's next words made it clear.

"I was hoping I'd see you," Franky offered.

"If you wanted to see me why didn't you just come over?" Bridget asked.

Franky was relieved that Bridget seemed so bemused. She hadn't been sure of her reception, which was why she had contrived a chance encounter instead of a more direct approach. She knew Bridget usually went to the gym at this time. "What are you doing later?"

"I'm meeting with Professor Farrer," Bridget told her.

That meant nothing to Franky and her expression must have said as much because Bridget then added for clarification, "the Chair of the Psychology Board."

Franky's brow cleared. "Shit," she muttered. "I'm mean it's not going to be good news, is it?"

"I think it means they haven't made a decision yet," Bridget told her, hopefully, in Franky's opinion. "Why did you want to see me?"

Franky studied Bridget's calm open countenance. She felt calmer just by standing next to her, talking to her. She felt still. "To say you were right, about Ferguson," Franky sat down next to her. Her eyes, which had been downcast, looked up into Bridget's. There was respect in them and regret. "I'm sorry," she said, "I was frustrated but not with you, with myself, and with Ferguson. You were right to question her intent but you were wrong to think this is over, it's far from over."

"Why do you say that?" Bridget asked with a frown.

"Meet me later," Franky pulled out her phone. "This is my new address," she said as she typed. A moment later Bridget heard her phone beep with an incoming message. "It doesn't matter how late." Franky stood up. "Yeah?" Bridget nodded. Franky smiled at her. "Good," she said with satisfaction. The conversation was over and yet she paused there for a moment. Bridget watched her curiously. "I do trust you," Franky said suddenly then she was gone, sauntering towards the showers, not looking back to see Bridget's reaction. She didn't need to. Franky felt better, lighter just for saying it.

Joan Ferguson was waiting patiently. She knew the power of patience. Everyone was so immediate, so needy for the now that society had become a brothel of instant gratification. Not Joan Ferguson though. No, she was patient. If anyone asked her to describe her strengths she said patience, perseverance, purpose and planning. She had those in abundance. There was no setback that couldn't be overcome when you applied those attributes. When things were out of control, they were the four things she could rely on. People were more difficult. They had proved themselves unreliable. Even those she had cared about had forsaken her, Jianna, her father. They were weak. She wouldn't think about them. Instead she focussed her mind on her end point. How she would get there might change but the ever fixed mark never moved, never varied. Of course distractions had to be dealt with, small irritations like Bridget Westfall's threat to speak to Sarah. She could have ruined everything, would have if Sarah had been made to talk. Unfortunately the girl was far too easily influenced. She couldn't risk allowing the psychologist, with her smooth words and engaging manner, free rein. Sarah knew too much about her plans making the cost too high. She was expendable and killing her became a necessity. Bridget Westfall shouldn't have interfered. Sarah's blood was on her hands.

Once she had her freedom it had been easy to put the final touches in place. Sarah had done as she had asked in all respects. Erica Davidson had unwittingly been the messenger. Now it was just a matter of waiting until her labour bore fruit. Then Bridget Westfall wouldn't matter and she would be able to refocus on her purpose. She had wanted to laugh when the psychologist had put forward her proposal but instead she played along. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing Bridget Westfall would eventually realise she hadn't won at all, that Joan Ferguson had been toying with her, humiliating her. She had never liked the prison psychologist with her little digs and meddling ways. Her interest in Franky Doyle had proven to be her weakness and Joan had enjoyed exploiting it. Perhaps a little too much, she admitted, as the temptation to drive a wedge between them became too hard to resist. Although she was only twisting a knife that had already been lodged into the heart of their relationship by Erica Davidson. Another one who was full of flaws. Joan had done her research into the former governor until she knew her and understood her weaknesses. Those same weaknesses had distracted Erica Davidson from her ambition.

Joan Ferguson heard the door to her cell open. She turned her head, already knowing who would enter. Everyone underestimated her.


	20. Making Connections

Bridget was just staring at her, not saying anything with a look that said everything. A look that told her Bridget couldn't believe what she was hearing. A look that said Franky had over estimated Bridget's benevolence. A look that Franky wished she hadn't been responsible for. She had a sinking feeling in her gut, the type you get when you realise you've got it monumentally wrong.

"This is why you wanted to see me?" Bridget said at last, incredulously. "To see if I'd help your girlfriend," Franky winced slightly at Bridget's tone, "get herself out of a pickle of her own making?"

Bridget's hands were on her hips, never a good sign, Franky thought. When she put it like that Franky could see how it might seem like an outrageous request. She attempted to dig herself out using the same strategy Erica had used on her.

"Look, do you really want Ferguson to win?" She asked.

"She already has," Bridget said wearily, dropping her arms to her side with a resigned gesture. She saw Franky frown. "Look at us, Franky," she added with exasperation.

Franky looked. They were fractured, damaged, disconnected, separated by betrayal. Hers. She had lead them here. Was Ferguson's victory the knowledge that she had had a hand in it? Maybe Ferguson hadn't actually orchestrated Erica's reappearance in her life but she had certainly made the most of it. She had used it to her advantage and they had let her. She was almost certain that Ferguson knew exactly what would happen next.

"Ferguson will never expect you and Erica to join forces," Franky said quietly. "Right now she thinks she's won. She thinks that we're defeated, and divided. Well fuck that!" She declared with a defiant tilt of her chin. "I didn't survive five years in prison, prostituting myself to power games, to be outplayed now. I'm going to bring Ferguson down, once and for all." It was an ambitious claim given all that had gone before. "So are you gonna help?"

It was a challenge. Her tone had an edge in it, half anger, half frustration. Bridget heard it but it was Franky's eyes that captured her. There was a plea in their depths, a desperation, and a fear that Bridget would say no. She wasn't sure.

Bridget thought about her conversation earlier that night with Professor Vivian Farrer. She had peeled Bridget back layer by layer, not obviously, not intrusively but with the skill of a woman at the head of her field. Then she had provided her own perspective, not as advice or professional insight but as a woman. Finally, out of respect or because she was a decent person, she had told Bridget what the outcome of the enquiry would be.

Bridget knew her answer. It was the same answer she had been giving to Franky since she had met her. It was the answer she would always give. It was the answer that anyone would give to a person they loved who was asking for help. "Yes," she said. Her voice so low and soft that Franky barely caught its whisper. The smile she received in response held nothing but relief. There was no triumph and no gratitude, Bridget saw with her own sense of relief.

Bridget was putting on her jacket. A cool change had come through that evening sending the temperature plummeting in a matter of hours. The jacket, which was her favourite, was the blue one in a motorcycle style. "How did it go with the prof?" Franky asked suddenly. Bridget looked up to see those green eyes watching her.

Bridget had thought Franky had forgotten about the meeting as she had made no reference to it when Bridget had appeared on her doorstep earlier. It had been clear though that Franky had been asleep before the doorbell had disturbed her. Her dark hair had been tousled and her eyes had still been dazed, and the smile that had greeted her had been languid. Franky had rubbed a finger across her eyelid, yawned, then pushed her elbows back bringing forward her chest then crossing her arms behind her head and relaxing. It was a move Bridget had seen Franky do countless times as she sat up in bed and prepared for the day. Her muscles flexing and relaxing, her tattoos coming alive for a moment as they shifted. Tonight there had been no muscles on display though, Franky was wearing a thin dark jumper that hugged her curves and only a glimpse of tattoo could be seen peeking out from the v neck collar. Bridget recognised the jumper. It was the one Franky pulled on as a layer of protection against the icy air on early Spring mornings. She remembered how soft it felt against her skin when Franky would fall back into bed and hold her, burying her face into Bridget's neck and breathing her in. She had loved those moments.

"It went well," she said, and it had but when she saw Franky relax she knew Franky had taken her words to mean something else. "What about you?" She asked, "have you finished your exams yet?" Franky just nodded. Bridget sensed her anxiety. "You'll have time to focus on other things for a bit," she said.

"Yeah," Franky acknowledged. She wanted those marks she needed to get into law so badly, she felt like she had everything to lose at that moment.

"And your dad, how are things with him?"

Franky had a vague sense that Bridget had deliberately shifted the conversation away from her. "Okay I guess," she paused, watching Bridget closely, "strange." She stepped closer. "What is it?"

Bridget suddenly felt very vulnerable. Franky's presence in her worn jeans, bare feet and favourite jumper combined with her concerned expression and undertone reminded Bridget of that moment in the library. She had felt then, just as now, the full force of Franky's sincerity. It was both disarming and disabling. She couldn't speak. She could only watch as Franky came even closer, into her personal space, sliding her arms around her and hugging her. Those strong arms held her close and she felt the softness of that jumper against her cheek. She closed her eyes. Bridget's own arms snaked around Franky's waist and this time Franky didn't let go. "You can tell me," she said softly.

Franky had seen the unnatural brightness in Bridget's eyes. It wasn't something she'd ever seen before. Bridget was so steady in her emotions. It was Franky who seemed to be forever laughing or crying and nothing in between. They were different like that. Bridget kept things deep rarely letting them bubble to the surface let alone overflow. "Gidget?" There was only silence but Bridget didn't let go, she stayed in the safe haven of Franky's arms.

"What did one psychologist say to the other?" Franky asked in the quiet. "Nothing," she said with a sigh.

Bridget was about to respond when the lights suddenly went out. She tensed in Franky's arms. It was pitch black in the flat. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she thought of Ferguson.

"It's the storm," Franky said immediately, reassuring her. She felt Bridget relax then eased out of their embrace. As her eyes adjusted Bridget saw her move to the window and glance out through the blinds. Rain beat against the glass as Franky looked down the street. The street lights were still working but no windows were lit across the street indicating a problem with the grid. Even so Franky did a quick surveillance of the street looking for anything unusual. "It's filthy out there," she said as she turned and almost bumped into Bridget who had come up behind her. "You should stay for a bit," she added, "you'll never get a taxi anyway."

"The insurance company paid out so I bought a new car," Bridget told her with a smile.

"Well it's too filthy to drive," Franky answered with her own smile. "So I'm keeping you here," she added in a tone that brooked no argument.

"All right," Bridget conceded after a moment. She made her way cautiously to the couch and sat down. Franky followed her.

It was strange to be sitting in the dark together. They were both conscious of the other. Franky was remembering the last time they were in the dark together. The choking fumes, the desperation, the blackness and noise of the fire all came flooding back to her. How had they survived that? She still didn't really know. Just like she didn't know how she had survived the Wentworth fire. What if she was still there, in that fire, and all of this was just a dream?

"I've been having dreams that Ferguson is inside my house," Bridget said suddenly as though she had read Franky's mind.

"Yeah?" Franky said curiously.

"I'm sitting on the couch and I hear a noise. My heart begins to thump in my chest. I'm afraid." Franky was silent, waiting to see what Bridget would say next. "So I do what every victim does in every thriller ever made, I go to investigate the noise. It always comes from the hallway. I pause at the light switch and put my hand on it. I stand perfectly still and close my eyes. I know I'm vulnerable. All my instincts are screaming at me to open my eyes but I don't. I count in my head, one, and two and three and on. My other senses begin to compensate in a desperate attempt to save me from myself. They search for unfamiliar smells, sounds that will tell me the direction of my intruder, air movement to warn me when they are nearby. But there's nothing. When I've counted out a minute I kill the light. I open my eyes. They have adjusted already to the darkness. I think I have the advantage now so I move into the hallway. I check each room in turn. I'm barely breathing. There is no one in any of the rooms so I turn back. That's when she grabs me," Bridget paused.

"What happens?" Franky prompted, intrigued.

"I wake up," she answered. "Every time I wake up."

Franky suddenly wondered if she was asking too much of Bridget. "I shouldn't have asked for your help with Ferguson," she said after a moment. "She's inside your head."

Bridget didn't deny it. The stress of the past few weeks had gotten under Bridget's guard. It was only after the danger had passed that her mind began exploring alternative outcomes to the situation. Her fear that Ferguson would trap her when she was alone and vulnerable played heavily on her subconscious. "I can manage it," Bridget reassured her.

Franky accepted her at her word. She wanted to believe, did believe, Bridget had the strength to overcome Ferguson's mind games. She also wanted Bridget's help.

"I wished she'd died in that fire at Wentworth," Franky admitted with a sudden fierceness.

"You would have died too," Bridget pointed out softly. She would rather Franky be safe than Ferguson dead any day.

"Not if I'd fucking killed her," Franky said brutally. "She was just lying there, I could have smashed her skull in," she added with regret.

"Why didn't you then?" Bridget asked.

"Because I thought we were going to die, that's why," she said simply. She felt Bridget take her hand and squeeze her fingers. "And all I could think about was you, and how we'd never get to be together." She held Bridget's hand in her own refusing to give it up. She'd never told Bridget that. She'd never really talked about the fire but somehow it was easier to talk about it in the dark with a storm raging outside. "Then at the flat, I couldn't believe it was happening again only worse because I couldn't save you,"

But you did, Bridget wanted to remind her. Franky's palm felt hot in her own.

"And I was going to leave you," she confessed. That knowledge had been killing Franky. She could have taken her secret to the grave, confessed to no one, but she hated it that Bridget didn't know the truth of the matter. "You were tied to the chair and my wrists were bound," the image flashed into her mind, "I couldn't untie you so I left you." All the helplessness she had felt at the time welled up inside her again.

"But we were found together," Bridget sounded confused, "you didn't leave me." Suddenly she wished she could see Franky's face.

Franky wasn't listening. "I wanted to tell you at the hospital but then you kissed me and I thought maybe you'd forgiven me and there was some hope for us."

Bridget thought about that kiss, their last kiss, it had been laced with hope. She had wanted to give Franky a chance until she realised Franky had already moved on. Now she wondered if she had somehow misread the situation.

"I should have told you," Franky was saying with regret. She pulled her hand away and wiped it against her thigh.

"It wouldn't have mattered," Bridget said firmly. "I know what happened, Franky. You saved us. Whatever went on inside that flat pales into insignificance when compared with that. I would never judge you for any decision you made in that fire, nobody would."

Bridget's words comforted Franky and took away some of the guilt she was feeling. "I would have come back for you, Gidge," she offered, the hint of a smile back in her voice. She already felt better. She put her hand on Bridget's thigh and patted it lightly.

"I know," Bridget said, smiling. She was suddenly grateful for the storm and their forced captivity. "Franky," she began tentatively.

"Gidget," Franky replied. She shifted so she was facing Bridget, tucking her leg under her.

"You've saved my life and protected me but more important," Bridget could feel Franky's eyes on her even if she couldn't really see them. "you've given me hope. After I lost Riley I was so heartbroken, it tore me apart, I never wanted to feel that way again. I had all the excuses in the world but the simple truth, I was just too scared. Until you came along, and showed me what was possible."

"I always thought you'd be a great mum," Franky murmured but Bridget was too intent on what she had to say to be distracted by Franky's words.

"It breaks my heart to hear you say you can't give me anything when you've already given me so much," she told her. "If our relationship is unbalanced then the debt is mine Franky, not yours. I just want you to know that."

Franky could hear the quaver in Bridget's voice that comes with strong emotion. "Come here," she said softly pulling her into her arms again.

When she woke the wind had died and the rain had stopped. She wondered what time it was. She had held Bridget for a long time, shifting at one point to get more comfortable but never letting go. Now she was alone. The power was still out. She stumbled around until she found a candle and some matches. It was barely enough to see by but it was enough to clean her teeth and find her PJs. For a moment she wondered if she had dreamt Bridget's visit and their conversation.

They had arranged to meet at a bar. The theory being it was neutral territory and therefore less likely to be combative. Bridget was last to arrive. She was dressed in a loose green blouse and tight black pants with boots. Her blonde hair was up leaving her slender neck exposed. Franky stood when she saw her approaching. "I'll get some drinks," she offered.

Erica decided making small talk with Bridget Westfall would be awkward at best. "No, I'll go," she suggested quickly and had disappeared in the direction of the bar before Bridget had arrived at their table.

"Hello," Franky said with a smile as Bridget sat down. "Did you get home okay last night?" The look she gave Bridget was slightly reproachful. "I woke up and you'd gone. I thought I'd dreamt you."

"I didn't want to wake you," Bridget explained. "It was late and you were fast asleep."

"Sorry, I was exhausted and I," Franky paused, glancing briefly towards the bar. "It's been a crazy couple of weeks."

Bridget wondered what she had been about to say. "I understand, you don't have to apologise Franky," she smiled at her. The storm had brought them closer together and cleared the air somewhat. She cherished what they had shared in the dark.

Franky just smiled. She put her elbows on the table and leant forward on her chair, watching Bridget. "I'm glad we talked," she said suddenly. She felt lighter and happier because of it and she wanted Bridget to know that.

As Erica returned to the table with a bottle of Tempranillo and three glasses, she saw Franky was talking in low tones to Bridget. The conversation stopped abruptly when they saw Erica approaching and she wondered what they had been talking about. She took a breath and prepared herself. After their last conversation she wasn't expecting much civility so Bridget's first words surprised her.

"I'm sorry," Bridget said, a slight frown hovering on her brow. "Franky told me what Ferguson did to you." Erica's eyes flicked to Franky who looked apologetic. "Not the detail of course," Bridget reassured her. "I told Franky that Ferguson was bluffing her and you weren't in danger. I stopped her from going to your flat." Bridget's eyes didn't waver from Erica's. "I got it wrong," she admitted, "and you suffered as a consequence."

Erica wasn't sure how to respond. She glanced at Franky but Franky's eyes were firmly on Bridget and there was an expression in them that Erica hadn't seen before. Bridget saved her from needing to reply.

"So how can I help?" She asked, taking up her glass and sipping her wine.

Erica pulled her eyes from Franky. "Ferguson went to my apartment deliberately to use my email account. She sent photos to the Minister of Corrections, compromising photos of him, to his private email account, presumably to blackmail him," she added.

"What photos?" Bridget asked.

Erica was reluctant to say. "Does that matter?"

"It could be important," Bridget said, "look, I appreciate you don't want to compromise your Minister further but we need to know what we're dealing with here." Her glance included Franky.

Franky watched Bridget handle Erica with a mixture of amusement and admiration. It was clear Erica wanted to protect Ben Lawson and Franky couldn't understand why. She drank her wine and wondered again why Erica was willing to help him.

They studied the photos Erica produced.

"Do you recognise her?" Bridget asked Franky. She thought Ferguson might have used an ex-con she had something on.

"Nope," Franky shook her head. "She's not Wentworth."

"She wouldn't be," Erica told her. "She's underage, apparently."

"Fuck!" Franky exclaimed with a laugh, "no wonder your boss is shitting himself. He could go down for sex with a minor."

"He didn't know," Erica said immediately. "Not until afterwards. That's a defence under Victorian law," she pointed out.

Franky laughed cynically. "You don't think Ferguson knows that too? How do you know what else she has in her armoury? You think these are the only photos? Come on Erica, don't be so naive," Franky was brutal.

"How did he meet this girl?" Bridget asked after a moment.

Erica told the story. Franky stifled a laugh before disappearing behind her wine glass. Erica shot her a look. So far she didn't feel Franky was being particularly helpful. She couldn't put that expression she had seen on Franky's face earlier out of her mind either. "You know what Franky," Erica said impatiently. "I could do without your judgement."

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Franky asked with surprise.

"I wonder if the waitress was Sarah," Bridget said pensively, seemingly oblivious to any tension. "At Sarah's flat Ferguson was looking for something."

"Her phone," Franky said immediately.

"I think it must have been," Bridget agreed. "She wanted the photos."

"Ring your boss," Franky instructed Erica, "ask him for the waitress' name and her description."

Erica did. The waitress was Isabelle and had a small, slim build with short brown hair and brown eyes. So while the name didn't match, the description did. "I bet it was Sarah," Franky said.

"It was," Erica said definitively, putting her phone down and picking up her wine. The other two women were looking at her with surprise. After all Erica had never met Sarah, had she? "The name she used, I saw it when I was looking into Sarah's background, Isabelle Carson was Sarah's sister who drowned."

That seemed to decide it but Franky couldn't see how it helped them and said as much. "The other girl is the key," she pointed out. She looked again at the photo. "That tattoo," she said slowly, "I've seen it somewhere before."

"Where?" Erica asked expectantly.

"Dunno," Franky said with a shrug of her shoulders. "It'll come to me."

Erica smiled and put her hand on Franky's forearm which was resting on the table. She did it without thinking but afterwards she wondered why she had done it. Franky gave her an odd look and when she glanced at Bridget Westfall she could see the psychologist had drawn her own conclusions.

"So Ferguson," she said, changing the subject and redirecting attention, "what do I need to know?" She looked directly at Bridget. If she was the expert then now was when she earned her appearance money.

"She will look for any weakness and exploit it. Her strength is her ability to read a person and determine their insecurities very quickly. She will bait you, poke you, looking for a reaction. If you have a secret then she will find it," Bridget told her with certainty. "Everything she says has an ulterior motive, never forget that, you cannot take her words on value face." Erica thought about what Ferguson had said to her while she was bound and helpless. Then she wondered uneasily what she had given away to Ferguson. What secrets had she revealed?

"Franky is right," Bridget was saying. "Our advantage is that Ferguson will never expect you and I to join forces. It will throw her off kilter but only momentarily. We cannot give her any reason to think we are not a united front, if she sees a fracture she will use it to break us apart. Instead we will need to press our advantage, do you understand?"

Erica nodded. "So you're coming in with me?" She clarified. She hadn't been sure what exactly the psychologist was offering when Franky had rung that morning to arrange their meeting.

"Unless you'd rather go in alone," Bridget said, eyeing the younger woman curiously. She saw Franky shake her head slightly at the suggestion.

Erica wondered for a moment which was the worse option. "No," she said at last. She would have preferred it that Franky had her back but she accepted that wasn't going to happen.

"How will you get in to see her?" Franky asked.

"Ben has pulled some strings," Erica told them. "We won't have any trouble."

"Except from Ferguson," muttered Franky as she finished her wine. She poured herself another glass, filling it to capacity to empty to the bottle. "You're both driving," she pointed out then grinned.

They talked through potential tactics from Ferguson and possible strategies to negate these. Despite this no one at the table felt prepared for the meeting with the ex-governor. They were each fully aware of their own vulnerabilities when it came to Joan Ferguson.

"I need to pee," Franky stated suddenly and disappeared. Her glass was empty again and she had polished off two glasses of water as well.

"It's getting late," Bridget said as she collected her phone and keys.

"Thank you for doing this," Erica said as she watched the other woman prepare to leave. "Why _are_ you doing it?" She asked, suddenly curious about Bridget's motives. "You have nothing to gain from it."

Bridget paused, considering her answer as she studied the younger blonde who presented a facade of collected coolness. "I'm doing it for Franky, because she asked me," she answered at last. Erica wondered then if perhaps Bridget thought there was something to be gained. "It's your motivation which interests me," Bridget added.

"No doubt you have a theory," Erica replied, "but you'd be wrong." She didn't expand. A part of her wanted Bridget Westfall to second guess herself.

Bridget shook her head slightly. She heard the unspoken 'again' at the end of Erica's words. She stood up. "Be careful, that's just the sort of thing Ferguson will love," she warned.

Erica felt like a seven year old who had just been chastised. "Don't worry, I can handle myself," she said coolly, "I've spent the last two years dealing with piranhas."

Bridget let Erica have the last word. It didn't matter to her. Erica Davidson had clearly decided she couldn't hold her own against Ferguson. It was why she had asked Franky for help.

The next day Franky glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was just before four in the afternoon, the appointed hour for the meeting with Ferguson. She slid her chair back from her desk and stood up. She had spent most of the day scouring the legal aid database looking for the mysterious blonde in the photo. The tattoo on her upper arm was distinctive and unique.

"Taking a break," she said for the benefit of whoever was paying attention. She took her phone with her and went in search of coffee. Her usual haunt had closed up for the day so she ventured further afield. She ducked up a back alley thinking it would lead her closer to the shopping precinct and the possibility of caffeine. She passed a tattoo studio called Ana's and on a whim took the narrow stairs down to the studio. It seemed deserted. Franky looked at the various photos which advertised the artist's more unusual works. He was good this guy, Franky acknowledged, admiring the technique.

"What do you make of that?" A voice asked from behind her.

She turned to see a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs. Presumably this was Ana. Franky hadn't even heard her approach. She had short black hair, thick and glossy, and dark friendly eyes. Her smooth complexion was typical of her race and gave her a timeless appearance. It made it difficult to judge her age, she could have been anywhere from twenty to forty. Her small hands rested easily in the pockets of her jeans.

Franky shrugged. "Bit disturbing," she said, eyeing the tattoo of a sculpted face with dark cropped hair which evolved into black crows against a dark red background. The face was half masked by a black and white bandanna which gave it a skeletal effect. "But beautiful," she acknowledged. "Yours?"

"Yep," she replied. "What were you after?"

"Some help actually," Franky said, surprising the tattoo artist. She pulled out her phone. "Ever seen this tattoo before?" She passed over the shot she had taken of the girl in Erica's photo, careful to crop out Ben Lawson's image.

"Sure," she said immediately. "It's a sankofa," she handed the phone back. "It's an African symbol meaning take what is good from the past to build a successful future. See how the bird is looking back while moving forward? This tattoo is quite stylised and unusual, often they are not quite as attractive." Franky noted the sweeping fine lines and the tail feather which became a fern, its leaves falling away. Its simple but beautiful design had caught her attention immediately. "It's quite popular in the U.S. especially with African Americans but you don't see it much in Aus." Ana told her.

"Do you recognise it? I mean do you know whose work it is?"

Ana shook her head. "Sorry, it's no one I know, the industry is pretty big these days, tattoo artists are a dime a dozen."  
  
Franky thanked her. It had been a long shot. It had given her an idea though, maybe she could do a reverse image search of the tattoo. She returned to her desk, coffee forgotten, and uploaded the image to her desktop.

Laura Prescott chose that moment to speak to Franky. She came up behind her and placed the revised notes back on Franky's desk. " Good work," she said with a smile. "I think we can use your arguments to reduce Sue Jenkins' sentence. Tee up a meeting with her so we can go through her testimony." She glanced at the screen. "Are you still entering old cases into the system?" She asked with a frown. "I told Henry you were wasted doing that." Henry Munroe headed up the department and had given Franky her job.

"Old cases?" Franky gave her a bemused smile. She was still hearing the compliments Laura had paid her.

"Isn't that Mia Campbell?" Laura asked, her eyes flicking to the screen. "She was charged with soliciting and drug offences about six months ago."

"Was she convicted?" Franky asked immediately.

Laura smiled uncertainly. "What's this about, Franky?"

"Nothing," Franky said with a shrug. Laura looked at her suspiciously. "Now get lost, I'm busy," she added with a grin. She put her pen to her temple and watched Laura walk away. "I'll let you know about the visit with Boomer," she called after her.

She searched the database for Mia Campbell. "Fucking hell," she muttered as she read through the file. It was what Laura hadn't mentioned that was interesting. Then another name leapt out at her. She didn't know if it was good or bad, she didn't know if they could use it. She sent a text to Bridget. Even as she wrote it she was processing the implications. 

"The girl is Mia Campbell, she's the daughter of Robert Campbell, the Deputy Premier, she's fifteen."


	21. In the Spider's Web

Erica watched from the safety of the observation room as they brought Joan Ferguson from her cell to the interview room. The monitor flicked between surveillance cameras as two attendants escorted the patient along various wide corridors which all looked the same. The ex-governor looked unfazed, almost in control as though she was leading the two men to a destination of her choice. She looked older in the cold light of day without makeup to soften her stern features. She no longer looked majestic in her regulation white pants and shapeless top but she had a presence. As she passed one of the cameras she glanced up suddenly and Erica had the sense that she knew she was being watched, and who was watching.

Erica glanced sideways and saw the psychologist was also watching the screen. Bridget looked composed and undaunted. Erica wondered what she was thinking.

They had met in the car park at four pm. "All set?" Bridget had asked. They had agreed that Erica would take the lead in the discussion. It was her meeting after all.

Now she steeled herself. She had her game plan she just had to execute it. She wanted Ferguson to know that despite the humiliation she had suffered at her hands, she had not crumbled as a consequence. She watched Ferguson choose the chair facing the door, the position of power in any room, then straighten the table slightly.

As she brushed past Bridget to exit the room first she asked in an undertone if there were microphones in the room. She looked back and caught the barely discernible shake of the psychologist's head.

Then they were walking down the corridor until they reached a door which looked just like the five doors they had already passed. Dr Williamson paused and nodded towards the room. He handed her a panic button. She slid it into her jacket pocket and thought how useful it would have been at her apartment.

"Ready?" She asked Bridget.

"After you," the psychologist replied briefly.

Erica entered the room and Joan Ferguson smiled. Then there was movement behind her and she saw Joan Ferguson's eyes shift away from her. She couldn't be sure but she thought she saw a slight flutter of surprise in those cold eyes.

Bridget closed the door behind her and wandered to the right of Erica leaning against the wall just at the edge of Ferguson's peripheral vision. A deliberate strategy they had decided on to ensure Ferguson never forgot Bridget was there, a shadowy presence lurking at the edge of her control. Erica stepped forward and sat in the chair directly across the table from the patient. It was impossible for Joan Ferguson to keep them both in view at the same time. "Will Franky be joining us?" She asked, seemingly unperturbed by this tactic. Silence greeted her question.

This was a negotiation pure and simple and Erica was a good negotiator. It didn't really matter if it was a piranha or a psychopath across the table, the principles were the same. If she could keep that at the forefront of her mind then those disturbingly penetrating eyes and the memory of her ordeal wouldn't bother her as much.

"How disappointing," Ferguson said after a moment. "Such an opportunity, don't you think?" Her eyes gleamed, "to explore this complicated little ménage a trios you have." Erica's eyes flicked to Bridget without thinking then she realised her mistake as she saw Ferguson's self-satisfied smile.

"You know why I'm here," Erica began with, attempting to regain control of proceedings.

"I couldn't begin to guess," Joan Ferguson said immediately.

"We both know you don't need to guess," Erica replied, "you planned this down to the last detail, didn't you? You wanted me in this room and here I am," Erica smiled at her, feeling on firmer ground. "It was a clever touch using my email," she acknowledged. "Now you have direct access to the Minister," she paused, "which is what you need, isn't it, for your plan to work?"

"I see you've been playing join the dots, Miss Davidson," Ferguson said in a patronising tone.

"What is it you want?" Erica's blue eyes coolly held Ferguson's.

"You seem so much more composed than when I last saw you, so much more in control, but you like it better when someone else is in control, don't you Erica?"

Erica ignored her. "What do you want?" She repeated.

Ferguson held her gaze, those eyes assessing her, that mind calculating. Erica stared her down, holding herself together even as she felt her body tense under the surveillance. "It's quite simple," Ferguson said at last, smiling superciliously. "I want these ridiculous charges dropped. I want to return to Wentworth and continue my work there."

"The Minister has no power with respect to the first and your second demand is subject to you achieving the first," Erica pointed out.

"Your Minister has the ear of the Attorney General and therefore the ability to influence the outcome of the first," Joan Ferguson smiled, "as you would know."

"And what are you offering in return?" Erica asked.

"My silence," she stated. "His little problem will disappear, I promise you," she smiled slightly and Erica felt the menace in that smile. She saw Bridget shift slightly and glanced across to her. Joan Ferguson followed her glance. Erica wondered what had caused the psychologist's concern.

"Tell me," Joan Ferguson said suddenly, filling the silence. "Has Franky chosen between the two of you?" Erica returned her gaze to the woman before her but said nothing. "What is it about her that captures people? I must say I fail to see it," she finished with a sigh.

Erica held her tongue. This time she knew Ferguson was baiting her.

"Of course, it's her empathy, isn't that right, Miss Westfall? I recall you explaining it to me," her stare shifted onto the psychologist. "She uses it to press her advantage and others fall for it." Bridget noticed the deliberate misinterpretation of her words, designed to incite division between her and Erica. "You both did."

"We're not here to discuss Franky," Erica said firmly, drawing Ferguson's attention back to her. "I'll pass on your offer," she said crisply. She was suddenly keen to end the discussion. It was clear Ferguson's intent was to find the rot beneath the shiny surface.

"But of course she's chosen, it was so obvious," Joan Ferguson scratched. "When she didn't come for you," her eyes were so disdainful when they settled on Erica, "when you were helpless and in danger she didn't come, because she chose not to. Ultimately we all choose, who to include and who to exclude, who to save and who to kill." Joan Ferguson leant across the table suddenly, invading Erica's space. "Of course she would choose Miss Westfall," she smiled, "she knows Franky's secret. It binds them together, that knowledge," she whispered into the sudden stillness. "That confession."

Bridget saw Erica glance at her. There was uncertainty in her expression. Keep it together, Bridget thought, as she watched the younger woman look back to Joan Ferguson with a question in her eyes.

"Oh yes," the psychopath said softly. "Hasn't Franky shared? She's in trouble, isn't she Miss Westfall?" Her eyes never left Erica. "As soon as her secret is out."

Erica didn't know what Ferguson was talking about. Somehow the conversation had slipped away from her. "This isn't about Franky or Bridget or me." She said, attempting to regather the reins.

"You know nothing about what this is about, Miss Davidson," Joan Ferguson said cuttingly. "You are merely a pawn in the game, to be moved or sacrificed as necessary."

"Mia Campbell," Bridget said suddenly from her position against the wall.

Joan Ferguson turned her head away from Erica and towards Bridget. "I beg your pardon?" She said as though Bridget had sworn at her.

"The girl in the photo, her name is Mia Campbell, isn't it?" Bridget asked. She looked across to Erica. "Robert Campbell's daughter," she explained.

Erica made the connection immediately. She wondered how on earth Joan Ferguson had managed to involve the Deputy Premier's daughter. She saw the implications spread before her.

"Is it?" Ferguson asked innocently. "Well, well, that will be awkward for your Minister," she said with a smile. "It's hard to believe he didn't recognise her," she added.

As set ups went, Erica had to acknowledge that Ferguson had done it beautifully. No one would believe that Ben hadn't recognised the daughter of one of his fellow cabinet members. Robert Campbell wouldn't believe it. This could destabilise the entire government. It was in no one's interest for this information to become public knowledge.

"I think we're done here," Erica said after a moment. Then added, because she wanted to wipe the triumphant look from Ferguson's face. "I wonder what story Mia Campbell will tell when we find her."

"You won't find her though," Ferguson said smugly. "You can't win, Miss Davidson," Ferguson told her with pity. "Now run off and deliver my terms like a good little messenger." She placed her hands on the table in front of her. "Give Franky my regards. I look forward to seeing her again at Wentworth."

As soon as they were outside Erica turned to Bridget. "What was Ferguson talking about?" She asked immediately.

"It's nothing," Bridget said, her eyes serious but steady.

"Nothing?" Erica said sceptically. "She says she's got something on Franky, that's hardly nothing." She waited but Bridget didn't offer anything further. "And you intentionally distracted Ferguson by mentioning Mia Campbell," she realised suddenly. "So you must know something," she concluded.

Bridget paused, considering before answering. "Franky confided in me, yes," she said at last, "but it was a confidential exchange."

Erica heard the inference in those words. Bridget had Franky's confidence. She knew something about Franky that Erica did not. There was a trust between them that was lacking in her own relationship with Franky. "Fine," she said a little impatiently, "I'll ask Franky myself."

"Don't do that," Bridget replied quietly. "It's exactly what Ferguson wants you to do. She wants to get inside Franky's head and yours. She's playing with you."

"So I'm just supposed to ignore it?" Erica asked incredulously.

"Yes," Bridget said firmly. "Let Franky tell you in her own time, if she wants you to know." She headed down the corridor back towards the reception area of the hospital.

It is easy to judge others by your own insecurities. Erica read volumes into that last remark, none of it good and most of it related to her own fears. She watched the petite figure ahead of her. Bridget walked with purpose but there was a relaxed style to her strides, a fluidity. There was nothing uptight about Bridget Westfall. She wasn't a player but she understood the game. She wondered suddenly if instead of criticising she should be admiring her. She followed more slowly and caught up with Bridget at security where they handed in their visitor passes.

"How did you know it was Mia Campbell in the photo?" She asked as they exited the building.

"Franky sent me a text," Bridget told her.

Erica immediately felt irritated. It was irrational but she was jealous that Franky chose to tell Bridget rather than her. The momentary feeling of respect passed. She didn't understand why Bridget Westfall was still in Franky's life. Bridget had dumped her, Franky's words, and yet they still seemed close. Unfinished, was the word that came to mind.

"Do you think Ferguson chose her deliberately?" Bridget was asking.

"What are you doing?" Erica asked, seemingly out of the blue. There was a slightly aggressive edge to her tone.

"Excuse me," Bridget asked with a frown.

"You dumped Franky, didn't you?" It was a rhetorical question. "So why are you hanging around?" Bridget saw the question for what it was, a frontal attack from a vulnerable position.

"Franky asked me for help," Bridget pointed out reasonably.

"You could have said no," Erica said impatiently.

"I'm not going to walk away from Franky unless she asks me to," Bridget said without apology.

"That sounds very noble," Erica studied the older woman. "But I think you don't want Franky to move on, to be happy with someone else, so you are making it impossible for her. You need to let go." She said plainly.

"Franky is quite capable of moving on if she wants to," Bridget refuted. "Perhaps you should ask her why she hasn't, if that's what you think." She took out her keys and unlocked her car. "Whether I'm around or not won't matter if she loves you."

Erica was silent. She knew what Bridget had said was true.

Mia Campbell watched as a pair of toned, tanned legs passed by her. They were tradies' legs, one of the construction workers from the building site across the street, and she had a secret attraction to them. She never bothered to lift her eyes to the face anymore, although some of them were attractive. As soon as they opened their mouths the attraction lessened. They were uneducated and uncouth. She would never seriously contemplate any of them. Those legs though, on their own without the social handicaps of their owners, were a pure delight. So much more appealing somehow than the contrived muscles of men who worked out.

She needed a hit. The legs were a momentary distraction at best. She was waiting for Stevie and he was late. If he didn't come she didn't know what she'd do. Sarah could always be relied upon for good gear but she was dead. Mia had found out about it by accident. She wondered what it would be like to burn to death, like the women burnt at the stake for witchcraft in the Middle Ages. She wondered idly if human bodies smelt like roast chicken. Sarah never struck her as a chicken though, more like a lamb. Even though she was younger, Mia had always felt more worldly than Sarah.

At 7pm she gave up waiting and headed back to the flat where she was staying. It was owned by some guy called Nath but Mia had never seen him. She had been offered the couch by a girl she'd met at Flinders Street Station. Lisa was from the U.S. She'd been handing out vouchers for a new tattoo studio in the city. She had told Mia she might get some work there on reception. She hadn't scored a job though and instead had spent her last $200 on a tattoo, that's when Lisa had offered her the couch.

As she approached the building a dark haired woman in faded black jeans and tattoos stepped into her path. There was something about her, a restlessness and a glint in her eyes that was immediately appealing. Her smile was engaging. "Mia right," she said.

A warning sounded in Mia's head. She hadn't gone by that name since she walked out of her parent's comfortable home and hypocritical life. "No, sorry," she kept walking, past the front steps of the apartment building and on towards the corner, hoping she could complete a block and the woman would be gone. She kept her head down and her eyes averted.

She felt a firm hand grab her upper arm and when she tried to shake it off she discovered the woman had a strength she wouldn't have guessed at given her slim build. "No you don't," she said with quiet determination. "Keep walking," she instructed.

Mia had little choice but to obey. "You've made a mistake," she insisted as she struggled without effect.

"I don't think so," came the reply. "You've got a tattoo of a sankofa on your left shoulder, right? You were charged with possession and soliciting six month's ago and you're Robert Campbell's daughter. Let me know if I've got any of this wrong," she suggested.

Mia didn't bother denying it. "What do you want?"

"Your help," she answered simply, surprising the teenager. "You hungry? Coz I am," she added.

They ended up in a pizzeria sharing a wood fired vegetarian pizza. Mia watched her companion curiously. She had said her name was Franky. She was confident even ballsy, quick to laugh and street smart. How had she found her, Mia wondered. Did she work for her father? Mia didn't think so somehow. "You're not eating," Franky said suddenly.

She had these green eyes that Mia found unnerving. Once they captured hers it was hard to look away so Mia focussed on the poster advertising a Kate Miller-Heidke concert just behind Franky's left ear. "I'd rather be chasing the dragon," she told her.

"Can't help you there," Franky said a little dismissively. "My dealing days are done," she added. Mia was surprised enough by this confession to glance directly at Franky. Those green eyes were laughing and she wasn't sure whether to take her seriously or not.

"So what do you do these days?" Mia asked, curious in spite of herself.

"How did you meet Sarah Carson?" Franky asked ignoring her companion's curiosity.

"Is this about Sarah?" Mia laughed unexpectedly. "I should have known."

"How come?"

"You're a journalist, aren't you?" Mia guessed. "I always thought she was making it all up. Not that I really cared, I mean Sarah could get her hands on the best gear and I was game. It was a laugh." Franky's phone began vibrating. Sarah saw the green eyes glance downwards. The caller was Erica. Mia saw the name briefly before Franky rejected the call. "What's it worth?" She asked suddenly. "This help you want."

Franky shook her head. "Dunno," she said. "Maybe something, maybe nothing. You interested then?"

"Yeah, maybe," Mia replied with equal casualness. She picked up her coke and sipped it.

Franky slid back in her chair. "Don't piss me about," she said impatiently. "I've got better places to be."

Mia wondered where that was exactly. There was always somewhere better. It was getting there that was tough. Sometimes she felt she was running in the wrong direction entirely but she no longer knew how to stop.

She stood up. Franky watched her. Mia Campbell didn't know what she was doing, she guessed, but she'd do anything for a fix. How did a girl who seemingly had everything going for her fall so low? It wasn't the drugs. There was something else at the core, something rotten, which was destroying her. Franky wondered what it was. "Sit down," she said with sudden forcefulness. "We're not done."

Mia sat. This Franky had an angry edge, a wildness, that was threatening. The smile, the dancing eyes, the attractive laugh were all gone and in their place there was an intimidating, simmering aggression.

"You have no idea what you've got yourself into, have you?" She said in a voice which left Mia in no doubt that whatever it was it was going to be bad. "That guy you set up, it wasn't a game, Sarah didn't do it for a laugh and now she's dead and you're next."

"Sarah died in a fire," Mia said with certainty. "It was an accident."

"Her neck was broken," Franky told her. She leaned forward, and Mia was captured by the look in Franky's green eyes. "Her fucking pyscho aunt killed her. She's dead because she became a liability, and that's just what you are." Franky's eyes didn't waver, drilling home her message with the intensity of her stare.

"You're lying," Mia mumbled, sounding every inch a teenager.

"I was there," Franky countered immediately and her voice had a ring of truth to it. She let the implications sink in.

Mia felt bile rising in her throat. It was hot and airless suddenly. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe she was already in too deep. She wasn't sure whether she could untangle herself. Maybe she was already trapped.

"What should I do?" She asked eventually, a desperate whisper. Suddenly her worldliness seemed to desert her. "I don't know what to do."

Erica slid into the warm water, disturbing the white cloud of bubbles until it resettled over her. Its lightly perfumed scent relaxed her immediately. The bathroom was lit only by candles. She closed her eyes and let the day wash away.

She had met with Ben straight after her meeting with Ferguson. He hadn't believed her at first when she had told him about Mia Campbell. Then she had googled Robert Campbell and hidden amongst the photos in the image search was one of Campbell with his family. The girl looked so young and vulnerable on the screen. He had crumbled then. When she had told him Ferguson's demands he panicked, saying it was impossible, saying he was ruined, claiming it wasn't fair. He was pathetic and she had never had less respect for him than in that moment. Erica had remained calm. What was the alternative, she had asked him. There was a way, she insisted, he just needed to think straight.

She wondered where Franky was. She wasn't answering her phone and hadn't responded to her text. She was surprised Franky hadn't been in touch to find out how the meeting with Ferguson had gone. Maybe she had called Bridget. Maybe they were together now, talking it though, maybe they weren't talking. She put a hot, scented face washer over her face and focussed on the sensations it created, willing her mind to empty. She hated the doubt that had taken up residence there.

"Hi," Franky watched as Erica jumped, sending a wave of water up the side of the bath and dousing a tea light candle on the edge. "Sorry," she said with a smile, "bit jumpy, aren't ya?" Then she remembered Erica had reason to be jumpy. She sat down on the edge of the bath. "Sorry," she said again, her expression apologetic. She felt Erica's wet hand on her thigh. "I could help you with that," she offered randomly.

Erica looked confused. "I'm having a bath," she said, "to relax."

"Yeah," Franky took Erica's hand in her own, "I could help you relax," she said smiling. She was feeling pretty good. It had taken her exactly two hours to track down Mia Campbell. She didn't even think the cops could work that fast. Franky Doyle, detective, deal maker, damn fucking good!

"Where have you been?" Erica asked, ignoring the offer.

"Finding Mia Campbell," Franky boasted.

Erica looked astonished. It wasn't at all the answer she had expected. "How?" She sounded sceptical.

"What's it worth to you?" Franky asked. She saw Erica looking blank. "I'm willing to trade," she offered with a grin. She leant down precariously and stole a kiss.

Erica was incredibly tempted to pull Franky down into the water with her and wipe the cocky smile off her face. Franky must have sensed this because she pulled away and stood up.

"I used social media," she told her as she pulled off her top. "I found Mia's Facebook page but she hadn't been active on it for almost a year." She leant over to pull her boots off. "Then I went onto Sarah's page and found she was friends with a girl called Lucy whose profile picture was a sankofa," she stood up to see Erica looking confused. "The tattoo on Mia's shoulder is a sankofa," she explained as she unzipped her jeans. "So I stalked her on Facebook, she has no privacy settings at all, worked out even where she was dossing down coz she tagged her location and even posted a photo taken in front of her place with a street sign in the background!" Franky was down to her underwear. Erica watched mesmerised as Franky's curves revealed themselves and tempted her away from her angst. It would be easy to say nothing, not call out Franky on her actions, let sleeping dogs lie. "It was just a matter of waiting for her to turn up," Franky was saying.

"You've talked to her," Erica said incredulously, distracted by this revelation.

"Yep," Franky said grinning. "Now I think I deserve something for that story," she said as she slid naked into the water but her smile vanished almost immediately. "Where are you going?"

Erica had stood up and wrapped a towel around herself. She climbed out of the bath. Franky realised she had made a mistake. She had been so excited about her find that she had forgotten to ask how the meeting with Ferguson had gone.

"We didn't learn anything," Erica told her when she had corrected her error. "She completely controlled the conversation even when Mia Campbell was mentioned. She was laughing at us." Erica realised in hindsight.

"You learnt what she wanted, right?" Franky watched as Erica dried herself off.

"No, we confirmed what we already suspected," Erica corrected her.

"How did she react to Mia Campbell?" Franky asked curiously.

"Completely unfazed that we knew," Erica said, pulling on her bath robe and knotting it securely. "She wanted us to know," she said after a moment. "It suits her purposes that Ben knows how much damage this will cause, not just to him personally but to the Government." Her eyes returned to Franky. "I was thinking of ordering Indian. Do you want some?"

"I ate already," Franky said apologetically.

Erica watched Franky for a moment, hesitating, then left without saying anything further.

When she was alone Franky slid under the water, immersing herself completely. Mia Campbell was the key to all this. How long had Sarah spent finding her and grooming her? Franky could use that fear she saw in the girl's eyes to her advantage. All of a sudden Franky sensed victory. Ferguson had made a mistake when she had relied on a fifteen year old druggie to do her dirty work. Unless Mia wasn't strong enough to do what Franky needed her to do.

She resurfaced.

"Why did you send the information about Mia Campbell to Bridget and not me?"

Erica was back, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, frowning, asking the question that had bothered her from the moment she had learned of it. Why?

"Huh?" Franky pushed her wet hair off her face and sat up. She could feel her body's reaction to the cooler air and Erica's presence. It tingled and tightened. She thought about what she'd like to be doing right now if Erica had been more willing.

"It was my meeting, she was there for backup, and yet you chose to send that critical information to her. I'm asking you why?" She tried to remain unemotional but disappointment and doubt battled for dominance.

"I," Franky paused, considering her answer, "I dunno," she said with a shrug. She felt suddenly she was on unstable ground. Why had she sent that text to Bridget? "I guess I figured you'd have your hands full with Ferguson." She could see that Erica wasn't pacified by that. "It doesn't mean anything," she said with a sigh. "I didn't even think if I'm being honest." This seemed to confirm something in Erica's mind.

"Exactly, you do it automatically." She said immediately.

It sounded like an accusation to Franky. She had heard this story before. "Erica," she sighed, "You've gotta stop this." She stood up and grabbed a towel, no longer interested in being there, tired of defending herself.

But Erica couldn't stop. There was so much doubt in her mind, put there by Ferguson, by Bridget's constant presence, but most of all by Franky.

"You're jumping at shadows," Franky added dismissively as she climbed out of the bath and began drying herself. "I'm here with you, aren't I?"

Franky wasn't looking at her. Her energy and her attention were focussed on her task. "I don't know," Erica said.

Franky looked at her then. "I don't know what else you want from me," she said.

Erica took a breath as she watched Franky pull on her clothes. She sensed her withdrawal. The swift, angry movements spoke of her frustration with the conversation and with Erica. "I know you think I abandoned you at Wentworth," Erica said at last, shifting the conversation away from Bridget Westfall. "But it wasn't like that, honestly. I had no choice but to leave. I was already under pressure and the Jacs Holt murder finished me. It was resign or be fired. So I left, but it had nothing to do with you." Erica wanted desperately for Franky to understand that. "But being here now," she added softly, "that has everything to do with you."

She had Franky's attention now. She was leaning against the basin bench, arms crossed, concentrating on Erica, reading her body language, searching for the truth in her words.

"There isn't anywhere else I'd rather be," Erica said after a moment. "But I don't know if it's the same for you."

There was no going back now. Erica had put it out there, all her fears about their relationship were summed up in those few words.

"Of course I want to be here," Franky said immediately. She wanted to say I'm not the one sabotaging this relationship but she didn't. She wanted to add that it was Erica who kept bringing Bridget into the mix but she didn't say that either. She didn't want to have this conversation because she wasn't sure where it would end. She had a sudden premonition that she would end up losing both Bridget and Erica. "You're over thinking this," she murmured instead as she took Erica's face in her hands and kissed her.

Erica resisted. She resisted because she knew Franky was deliberately distracting her. She knew the conversation wasn't over and she felt if she didn't take a stand now then the pattern would be established and they would never deal with anything. Franky pulled away, a question in those bewitching eyes.

"You don't want this?" Franky asked softly and a little incredulously. She kissed her again, sliding her hand through the gap in Erica's robe, caressing the soft skin under her breast.

Erica held firm. "No," and she pushed Franky away.

Franky just looked at her for a moment then with a shrug she let go and walked past Erica and into the kitchen. Erica followed her. "I want to finish our conversation," she told her firmly as Franky took a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a water. "But you don't, do you?"

"What's the point? Nothing I say is going to pacify you, so shoot me," Franky said putting up her hands in defeat. All she really wanted was curl up with Erica and celebrate her win that day.

"Don't tempt me," Erica muttered. She rubbed her hand against her brow. There was plenty Franky could say that would make her feel better about things. She watched as her girlfriend dropped carelessly onto the couch.

"Come here," Franky instructed quietly, patting the space next to her. "You can't let Ferguson into your head," she said as Erica sat down next to her. "That's what this is really about, isn't it?" She said softly, putting her hand on Erica's thigh.

Fucking Ferguson and her mind fucks, she thought as she watched Erica frown, she'd never be free of her until she was dead.

"She said something right, so what was it?" Franky guessed.

Erica hesitated as Bridget's words came back to her. "She was just trying to get the advantage," she said after a moment. "It was nothing." She put her hand over Franky's and squeezed it.

Franky looked at her, her expression an equal measure of concern and relief. She turned her hand in Erica's and their fingers interlocked. Her eyes drifted downwards. "What is it?" Erica asked with concern.

"Your robe," Franky said in a low voice, her eyes never moving.

She glanced down to see her bathrobe had begun to gape. The soft rounded curve of her breast was exposed and had Franky's attention. She felt her nipples react under the warm appreciative gaze. Franky's grip on her hand tightened slightly. She sensed her resolve weakening as Franky licked her bottom lip and opened her mouth slightly. Her body responded in anticipation, and a warm excitement flooded her. She leant forward, knowing it would not make matters better, inviting Franky to turn her admiration into action.

Franky leant across and kissed her, unable to stop herself, testing the waters boldly. Her free hand found its way between the silky folds and her fingers fluttered against Erica's smooth stomach. Franky's hand then wandered upwards and one finger circled her nipple lazily, she heard Erica sigh with pleasure. It was the encouragement she'd been hoping for.

She undid the sash and pushed the robe away so she was unhampered. Erica was exposed. Her pale rosy nipples were taut with expectation. Franky felt her own response begin to burn lower down. She kissed Erica again, sliding her tongue in then withdrawing playfully, making Erica chase. Her hands cupped Erica's breasts as she pinched lightly. She felt Erica push against her hands, demanding more from her. Franky took control pushing her down onto the couch, pulling off her own top and bra. "Your jeans too," Erica murmured, wanting to feel Franky naked against her.

Their breasts touched, nipples glided across each other, light and arousing; thigh brushed against thigh until Franky nudged Erica's legs up and apart. Erica floated on a cloud of anticipation as Franky's fingers slid across her inner thigh, stroking as light as a feather, until she reached her honey trap. She gasped and moaned in turn as she felt Franky's warm breath teasing her and her tongue slipping inside her, fucking her. It was excruciatingly pleasurable, it cleared her mind, she felt as though she was falling into nothingness. When Franky's fingers fluttered rapidly against her clit, it made her whimper in ecstasy.

Franky heard Erica orgasm and felt her throbbing against her fingers, and her own need became even more pressing. It was such a turn on hearing Erica climax. Every time she was able to melt that cool exterior she felt enormous power and responsibility. Erica was at her mercy in those moments, unguarded and trusting, and Franky loved it. She moved so she was stretched along Erica's side, precariously positioned on the edge of the couch. Erica turned on her side to face Franky and give her more room. "You okay?" Franky asked, suddenly unsure why there were tears shining in Erica's blue eyes. She brushed away the one that overflowed from the corner of her eye.

"You can trust me, Franky, you know that, don't you?" Erica took Franky's hand and brought it to her chest. "With anything," she added softly.

"I know," Franky caressed Erica's serious face, her eyes holding her gaze. She saw Erica relax and smiled at her, kissing her lightly.

Mia Campbell sat in her room. She needed a fix so badly she couldn't think straight anymore. Her mind fixated on the trouble she was in. She remembered what Franky had said about how Sarah had died. She believed her. The one time she had met Joan Ferguson she had said something which had sent a disturbing shiver down her spine. "Such a pretty thing and yet she's damaged quite beyond repair." Joan had leant in close to Mia until she could feel her stale breath upon her cheek. "It would be kindness just to kill her." Said as though she was talking of an injured animal and not her own niece. Mia was shaking uncontrollably. She pulled her coat around her to ward off the sudden chill.

 

 


	22. Death Becomes Her

Franky knew she was being followed. The hairs on the back of her neck were tingling and that sixth sense she had developed in prison was in overdrive. She had been lost in her thoughts, thinking about Erica, and a conversation they'd had the day before.

_It was Sunday afternoon and they were lazing in the park across from Erica's apartment. Erica had her eyes closed, enjoying the warm sun and Franky's head was resting against her stomach. She was feeling happy._

_"Oh," Erica murmured in surprise._

_Franky had been watching a pair of parrots in the cherry tree. They were having a fine time turning themselves upside down in their attempts to claim the new season fruit. Now she moved her head so she could see Erica's face. "Huh?"_

_"I was thinking about my first girl crush," Erica explained. "Only I didn't realise that's what it was until just now."_

_"Yeah?" Franky said idly. "Who was she?"_

_"Andrea Stefani. I was sixteen. I was seeing a guy called Tony and his best friend Marcus had a girlfriend called Andrea. We were thick as thieves back then, the four of us, inseparable. Tony was a nice guy, safe and polite to my parents, but we didn't really suit. Marcus was the charismatic, good looking one of the pair. And Rea was beautiful." Erica reminisced. "She had this thick glossy dark hair and dark brown eyes that were warm and friendly. She was slim but the boys loved her because she had curves and gorgeous coppery skin." Franky smiled at her tone. "And she was smart. I spent more time talking to her than I did with Tony. I think I only stayed with him so I could see Rea."_

_"What happened?" Franky was curious about this young version of Erica._

_"Nothing, when she and Marcus broke up, I never saw her again. Tony and I split not long afterwards," Erica remembered._

_"Don't you wish you'd done something about it?" Franky had a 'no regrets' policy when it came to matters of the libido, and life generally._

_Erica laughed. "It's not that simple, Franky, I didn't even realise I was attracted to her in that way. I just thought we had a connection." She sighed. It sounded naive now. To her surprise Franky rolled onto her stomach and smiled knowingly at her. "What is it?"_

_"Like we had a connection, you mean?" She asked with a glint in her eye. Even now she wanted Erica to admit it._

_"Maybe," Erica looked at her thoughtfully. "No," she decided._

_"No?" Franky raised her eyebrows._

_"What we have, I've never had that with anyone before," Erica admitted._

As she walked Franky thought about those words. She hadn't asked Erica what she thought they had. They had something, undefinable maybe, transient maybe, but it was bold and bright and took her breath away at times.

That was when she felt someone behind her and glanced around surreptitiously but couldn't see anything suspicious.

She had decided to take a short cut through the park so now hers was a dark and lonely path without much hope of intervention. She had passed the community hall a few minutes back. It had been lit up and a scout meeting was underway. She had watched them through the window as she had passed. It had been good to be on the outside looking in for a change. She had spent too long doing the opposite. Her follower could just be an innocent volunteer but she didn't think so. She wasn't afraid though, her worst nightmares were behind her these days.

At a bend she strayed deliberately from the path into the deeper darkness of the trees. She waited, watching to see her shadow pass along the path and under the solitary lamp-post. It gave her a momentary glimpse. She watched him continue and after a moment Franky slipped into his wake. The hunted had become the hunter.

He wasn't a very good stalker, this guy, Franky decided quite quickly. For starters he'd lost his prey and hadn't even realised then he stopped to take a leak against a tree. Franky sized him up, chose her moment then quick as lightening had him pressed up against the rough bark, his arm locked behind his back. "Why are you following me?" She hissed in his ear. "Huh?" She heard him grunt in pain. "Who the fuck are you?" She twisted his arm a little harder.

"You're hurting me," he gasped.

"Good," she replied with some satisfaction. "Name," she demanded.

"Stephen," he answered quickly. She relaxed her grip slightly, he was only a weedy runt of a kid anyway, she decided. In that instance he heaved her backwards with a strength she hadn't anticipated. She lost her footing and fell awkwardly. "Shit," she muttered.

She was on her feet, running after him, almost immediately. He had gone deeper into the wood. The darkness closed in around her. She was running fast and small tree branches tore at her clothing then one caught her sharply just under the eye. She gasped in pain but kept running. She caught up with him but again, as she went to grab him, he surprised her with some quick defensive moves. She doubled over as his elbow connected with her stomach. Then he tripped her almost effortlessly and she went down again. She had lost some of her agility and anticipation since getting out. His boot connected with her lower back several times as she rolled into a defensive position, tucking her head behind her arms and pulling her legs up to protect her stomach. Then he was gone and by the time she had recovered sufficiently to sit up there was no sign him.

It could have just been an opportunistic mugging attempt but she didn't think so because for starters he didn't take anything. The whole incident had an amateurish feel to it. She shook off the feeling that it had something to do with Ferguson.

She reached her flat and saw Erica's car parked out front. She tapped on the glass. "Hello," she said with a smile when Erica opened the window. "This is unexpected." She leant one hand against the roof and the other on the door and smiled.

"What happened to you?" Franky didn't answer immediately. "Your eye," Erica added, a light note of concern in her voice. "It looks like you've been brawling."

"Not exactly," Franky said with a slight smile. "Are you coming in?"

Inside Erica led her to the mirror in the bathroom. She stood behind her as Franky glanced at her reflection. Under her left eye there was a nasty gash. She touched it curiously then her eyes met Erica's in the mirror. "In the park, a rogue branch," she explained.

"Well, it needs attention," Erica replied practically. She found antiseptic and wipes and sat Franky down on a chair. She tilted her head back and wiped gently around the wound with a wipe soaked in warm water.

"I was hoping you would kiss it better," Franky told her, watching Erica's face as she focussed on her task. She saw Erica smile in response.

"What were you doing in the park?" Erica asked as she worked.

"Nothing, just passing through," Franky suddenly grabbed her wrist as Erica's attentions shifted to the gash itself. "Careful," she warned.

"You do it then," Erica offered in surrender.

"No, it's okay," Franky conceded and let go, then came the grin that Erica found irresistible.

"I'll try to be gentler." Erica continued her ministrations. "Tough girl," she added under her breath. She heard Franky chuckle. "I saw your girl tonight by the way."

"Who?" Franky thought she meant Bridget but to jump to that conclusion, she was learning, would get her in hot water so she erred on the side of caution.

"Mia Campbell," Erica was focussed on her task.

Franky sat up straighter. "You saw her tonight?" She clarified. "Where?"

"I was with Louisa. She wanted me to meet some of women that Open Pathways tries to help. Mia was with them."

"Did you speak to her?"

Erica shook her head. "Louisa did, that's how I noticed her. Strange coincidence that Louisa knows her," she added.

Franky was thinking hard. What Erica didn't know, couldn't have known because Franky hadn't told her, was that Mia had disappeared off her radar. "Shit," she muttered. She hadn't told Erica that Louisa Kelly had been a character witness for Mia at her hearing. She had forgotten that Louisa had offered Erica a job and she had direct access to the one person who might know where to find the teenager.

"What is it?" Erica had asked.

Franky was frowning. "Mia's gone to ground," she admitted.

"How do you know?"

"She hasn't posted anything on Facebook since Saturday morning," Franky replied grimly.

Erica didn't really understand the significance. "Well, I often don't go onto Facebook for days," she offered.

Franky gave her a look. "You're not fifteen," she pointed out.

"Why don't you ring her," Erica suggested helpfully, "or go to her place?"

"She's not answering," Franky had already tried calling her multiple times, "and I staked out her place yesterday. She hasn't been there." She had an idea. "Can you take me back to where you saw her?"

Erica thought about it. "It was down some back street, almost an alley," she said. Louisa had been story-telling on their journey there. It had distracted her and she hadn't paid close attention to the route. She shook her head. "I don't think I could find it again," she saw the disappointment in Franky's eyes. "I'm sorry," she said with a rueful smile, "but I doubt she'd still be there anyway." She offered as consolation.

Franky considered this. "Yeah," she replied without enthusiasm.

"I'm done," Erica said, turning away from Franky to put the wipes in the bin.

Franky grabbed her and spun her back, pulling her down towards her. "Thanks," she murmured as she kissed her.

"Mm," Erica smiled at her. "You're welcome," she replied and kissed her back.

"Can you give me Louisa's number?" Franky asked.

Erica sighed. This hadn't been what she'd had in mind when she had decided to come over and surprise Franky. "Trade you for it." She suggested invitingly.

Franky laughed. "Okay," she agreed. "Whatcha want?"

"Your top," Erica said immediately.

Franky raised her eyebrows but took it off and handed it over. Erica ran her fingers lightly down Franky's torso, following the tattoo that ran down her left side. She stopped at the waist of Franky's jeans. "And these," she added softly, tugging gently at the waistband.

Franky smiled. "You trying to distract me?" she asked, putting her hand over Erica's but not resisting.

"Would you mind?" She asked with a glint in her eye. "Forget about Louisa," she suggested, her eyelids lowered hiding her blue eyes momentarily. She leant in and kissed Franky. "Ben has convinced the AG to drop the charges against Ferguson. It's all over," she murmured. "So now," she slid her hands over Franky's arse, "I want to thank you for helping out."

Franky stiffened slightly. Erica's words and their implications still registering with her. She stared in disbelief, all thought of leisure activities suddenly gone. "What?" She stood back. "Ferguson's walking?"

Erica frowned at the sudden distance between them. Hadn't Franky realised this was always going to be the outcome? "Of course," she said. "Franky," she sighed, "Ben was never going to risk Ferguson talking, he was putty in her hands."

"You've just signed Mia Campbell's death certificate," Franky told her coldly. "Do you think Ferguson will risk her talking? Especially when you pretty much told her you planned to find Mia."

"This isn't down to me," Erica felt the need to defend herself.

"Yes, it is," Franky was unforgiving. "I had a fucking plan, Erica, and it didn't involve throwing Mia to the wolves and letting Ferguson walk!"

"No?" Erica asked with raised eyebrows. She couldn't help but respond to Franky's anger and the unjust nature of her accusations. "Well, maybe if you'd bothered to trust me with your plans, Franky," she said pointedly. They glared at each other, Franky with her arms crossed, neither prepared to back down. "You know what," Erica continued with, "Ben asked me to negotiate with Ferguson and that's what I've done, I never said I was going to do anything else, so don't crucify me now because you're not happy with the outcome." Erica said with finality.

"Jesus Erica, don't you get it? Ferguson will be gunning for anyone who ever stood in her way. None of us are safe, not Bridget, not me, not Bea, and definitely not Mia fucking Campbell!" Franky pulled on her top and pushed past her. She found her keys and grabbed a jacket. "You'll have to leave," she told Erica who had followed her into the room.

"Where are you going?" Erica asked, watching with concern as Franky rifled through a kitchen drawer and pulled out a paring knife, which she slid up the sleeve of her jacket.

"To find Mia," Franky said shortly.

"Franky," Erica began with a frown but when Franky glanced up from her task and those green eyes caught her own, the look in them stopped her.

Franky opened the door and stood waiting for Erica to leave so she could lock up. Erica gave in with resignation. As she passed by Franky she hesitated. "You're being unfair," she said. Franky didn't respond. "I'll call you," she offered, hoping for some concession, some hint that Franky was already regretting her words.

"Don't bother," Franky said coldly, killing that hope as surely as the first ray of sunlight breaks the dawn.

The further Erica walked, the more angry she was with Franky. It was unfair of her to hold Erica responsible for Ferguson's release. She was not the kingmaker here. Then Ferguson's words came back to her, she was just a pawn in the game. It was convenient to think that. She didn't believe in sides. There wasn't a right side or a wrong side. There was just success and failure but it was personal. Erica had never played team sports, she didn't understand how to play as part of a team. Her ambition had brought her to this point. She had seen opportunity in Ben's dilemma. She had wanted to help him not for any altruistic reason but because she wanted the chance for pre-selection. A door that had been seemingly closed suddenly opened again. Her political ambitions were not dead and she wanted the choice of whether or not she pursued them to be hers.

Now she wondered, suddenly, if she was unwittingly playing on the wrong side. Her view of things had played into Ferguson's hands. Franky was also opportunistic. Erica had recognised that in her early on in their relationship but it was not what drove her. In Franky's world there were crews, and loyalty, and betrayal. What Erica had done, in Franky's eyes, was contrary to all that.

She called Louisa because she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts. "Come over," Louisa instructed immediately and gave her an address in Essendon.

Franky started at the only place she could think of, at Mia's last known address but it was fruitless. There was no sign of the girl or anyone for that matter. Keeping busy and having a purpose channeled her anger, and kept at bay the disappointment she felt about Erica's single-minded pursuit of her own agenda. Why was she so surprised? Hadn't they been here before? Erica was playing her own game at the expense of others, making her words to Franky about trust seem insincere and hypocritical.

She went back onto Lucy's Facebook page and looked for something that might help her. Eventually she found a reference to a tattoo parlour in the city and wondered if that was where Mia had gone to get her sankofa. It was worth a shot considering she had found nothing else useful.

"Hi," the young woman smiled at Franky. She was American or Canadian, Franky could never tell the accents apart unless it was a southern drawl. "What do you fancy?"

She was probably five years younger than Franky from the look of her, with a clear complexion and white teeth. Californian maybe, Franky guessed. She responded to her open engaging manner. "I dunno," she smiled back, her tone at odds with her words. "What are you offering?" The girl laughed. Franky took out her phone and found the photo of Mia's tattoo. "I saw this on a girl," she said.

"Yeah, right," the young woman was still smiling. "It's one of mine."

"Is it?" Franky sounded impressed. "I'm Franky," she said.

The tattoo artist's name was Lisa. She hadn't seen Lucy for a few days but she knew her likely haunts and reeled them off. "Also, she sometimes hangs out with a guy called Stevie," she added as an afterthought. Too trusting, Franky thought as she thanked her. "Listen," she added as she turned to leave, "Lucy might be in some trouble. If you think of anything that might help, can you call me?" Franky grabbed a pen and a pamphlet from the counter and scribbled down her number in the corner.

Lisa took it and stuck it up on a pin board behind her. "Sure I can't tempt you with some ink?" She asked.

"Some other time," Franky promised.

She needed a car. There was no way she could track down Mia without one. Catching public transport was taking too long and Uber was too expensive. Her options at this point were limited to Erica, Bridget or her dad, and none of those appealed to her for various reasons. She would call Laura Prescott, she decided. "Hey," she said when the lawyer answered. "Need a favour."

"Hello Franky," Laura sounded wary, "what kind of favour?" Franky told her. "My car?" She queried. "Why?"

Obvious question, Franky acknowledged, she thought quickly. "I've got a chance at a second hand silver and black triumph sprint but the guy will only hold it tonight and he's up at Lake Wendouree." Only a partial lie, she had seen a triumph motorbike advertised on gumtree, and it had been somewhere up that way.

"As in Ballarat?" Laura exclaimed, "that's a three hour return trip."

"I'll cover the petrol," Franky offered, "and have it back to you before work tomorrow. Come on Boss, you're too nice to leave me desperate," she cajoled. Franky heard her sigh as a sign of capitulation. "I'll be right over," she said quickly before Laura could change her mind.

Erica clasped her wine but didn't drink. "I'm sorry," she said eventually. "I'm not much company. I probably should go." She felt awkward.

"Don't go," Louisa leant in and put a hand on her thigh. "You look like you could use a friend." She studied the younger woman. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," Erica said then added, "It's Franky," she sighed. "Not really," she repeated. She looked up to see understanding in those Irish eyes.

"I didn't realise," Louisa said softly. "How long?"

"Not long," Erica told her, "and forever. Since Wentworth," she thought about the first time Franky had lit up her world, and sent a spark right through her, a spark that had thrilled her and scared her simultaneously. It was something she hadn't expected and couldn't handle. She had panicked. She could see that now. None of it had fitted into her plan and it was only now that she realised that perhaps it was the plan that was wrong. The look on Franky's face tonight had been telling. If it is patterns of behaviour that define us then Erica had demonstrated once again to Franky that she placed her ambition above all else.

Louisa was watching her carefully. "Can I help?" Was all she said, her tone sincere and full of sympathy. Erica sighed. Maybe she could help.

Dead ends. One after the other Franky chased them down until she ran out of options. She sat in Laura's VW Golf and stared into space, willing her mind to think beyond the probables or even the possibles to the barely credible. Nothing.

Her phone beeped and she glanced at the text. It was from an unknown mobile number. "Steve Carey," it read then an address.

Okay then, she thought, suddenly feeling revitalised. It was the third time that evening she had heard that name. Stephen, Steve and Stevie, what were the chances of that? She thought about her assailant from the park. Maybe if she hadn't lost him, he might have led her straight to Mia. She swore under her breath as she started the car.

Soon she was standing outside a rundown terrace house. This one clearly hadn't been 'rescued' yet by some cute couple from reality TV land. The cast iron lattice work on the second storey verandah told stories of its glory days but the rest was underwhelming. The lower level was in darkness but a light peeped out from behind a hastily drawn curtain on the upper level. Franky knocked but she didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. She looked up speculatively at the second floor but there was no way of scaling the almost sheer narrow wall between the terraces to gain access to the balcony. She looked down the street searching for inspiration. Then without expectation she did the obvious and tried the front door. The door handle turned noiselessly under her hand. She smiled at the simplicity of it.

The house had an unnatural silence that raised hairs on the back of her neck. She checked out the lower floor but only found dark empty rooms consistent with her expectations. She heard the stairs creak with age as she climbed up them. She tried the front room where the light had been coming from but it was also empty. That was less expected. She heard a movement in the hallway behind her and a saw a flash of clothing disappear towards the stairs. She followed quickly, guessing the direction but at the front door she hesitated and turned instead towards the back of the house. A door that she remembered being open was now closed. She smiled. Gotcha, she thought briefly, before grasping the handle and shoving the door open.

Her eyes adjusted to the dimness and the shadows revealed a form. "Hello Franky," it said.

Joan Ferguson.  It was a trap. Thoughts collided into each other even as Franky looked deeper into the gloom for Mia. Her fingers felt the knife slip down until she was able to grip the handle. She pressed it against the back of her thigh. "Where is she?"

"Gone," it was almost a whisper. Franky's eyes were adjusting to the dark. She saw Ferguson smile and her heart sank. "I knew we'd meet," Ferguson went on to say. "You're tenacious, I'll give you that," she acknowledged, sounding slightly surprised.

"You'll never get away with this," Franky told her but she was just stalling for time. She knew she wouldn't beat Ferguson in a straight out tussle. She was too strong, even for Franky, but if she could surprise her, distract her, then maybe she would have a chance. She realised suddenly that only one of them would walk out alive from that house. Ferguson or Franky would triumph. It had all come down to this moment.

"But don't you see?" She stepped closer. "I already have." Franky slid her free hand into the back pocket of her jeans and found her phone. "Your girlfriend made sure of that."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't know you as well as I do," Franky countered dismissively. She wasn't going to let Ferguson bait her.

"Erica Davidson," the ex-governor murmured speculatively. "We had quite a conversation at her apartment. I think we understood each other very well. She was begging at the end. Did she tell you that?" She asked curiously. "No," she decided, "she wouldn't want you to know her weaknesses. Image and perception are very important to Erica. You better watch out for that."

Franky wasn't listening. She was trying to activate the voice recorder on her phone, one handed and without taking the phone out of her back pocket. Maybe she could get Ferguson talking and get something incriminating on audio. As her fingers slipped blindly over the screen pressing aimlessly, she wondered why she was even bothering.

"How is Miss Westfall?" Joan continued her monologue. "She seemed less heart broken than I would have expected after you betrayed her."

"Mind fucks are the only way you can get off, aren't they?" Franky said sneeringly. "You can't touch me though, I'm free, of you, of that shit hole Wentworth, so what else you got, huh?" Franky challenged.

"I've still got that tape," Ferguson smiled.

"Yeah? So use it," Franky dared her. "What are you fucking waiting for?" She laughed. "I'll tell you why," she offered. "It's worthless as evidence because it was gained illegally. There are no forensics to support it and Bridget will never testify to its existence or the conversation. So I'm still free, got anything else?" Fuck, it felt good to say those things, to call Ferguson's bluff once and forever. Franky was tired of running. "Now where's Mia?"

Ferguson moved quickly, faster than Franky had anticipated. She dropped the knife when her arm slammed into the wall with the force of Ferguson's attack. The clatter it made as it landed on the floor distracted Ferguson and gave Franky enough time to race to the front door. It was locked. Ferguson must have deadlocked it on the way past and pocketed the key. Fuck! She didn't like her chances against Ferguson and the knife. She headed upstairs three steps at a time. Ferguson was right behind her, she was faster than Franky expected, and attempted to ankle tap her. She tripped but managed to kick Ferguson in the face then scramble up the last few steps on all fours. She got to her feet and ran into the front room. The sliding door to the verandah was unlocked. Once outside though she realised she had reached the end of the road. It was a sheer drop to the concrete pavement. She looked up, hopeful, and realised if she stood on the edge of the iron balcony railing she might be able to reach the lattice work, which someone had tacked up and grown wisteria along, then it would just be a matter of pulling herself onto the roof. As plans went it was a crap one but her time and options were limited.

Ferguson grabbed her as she balanced on the railing. For a moment she teetered before she lost her footing. She managed to grab the lattice to save herself, swinging in mid-air before Ferguson pulled her down. She felt the knife cut into her side and a searing pain that took away her breath. She grappled for the weapon, lunging at her foe with desperate force, knocking her backwards. Ferguson's breathing was heavy as she pressed Franky up against the railing. Franky strained to get away from the knife, leaning out precariously as the metal glinted in the lamp light. For a moment she caught sight of Ferguson's face, it was twisted with rage, almost unrecognisable as the demon inside her took over. Franky went slack and Joan Ferguson was propelled forward by her own momentum which suddenly had no resistance to counter it. Before she could stop herself she had flung herself over the railing.

Franky stood up slowly, clutching her wound, and looked over the edge. She expected to see a lifeless Ferguson on the ground below but instead she saw a gloved hand clinging to the railing, and Joan Ferguson at her mercy. She started to laugh.

"Oh shit, you okay?" she asked with seeming sincerity, leaning on the railing for support, her breath still ragged from the fight. "Need a hand?" She watched Ferguson struggle to get her free hand across to the support beam. "Better drop the knife," she advised.

"Help me," Ferguson instructed.

"Well, there's only me here," Franky told her casually, "and I don't reckon I could pull you up on my own. So if you lose your grip, and slip, who's gonna be the wiser?"

"You haven't got it in you, Doyle," Ferguson sneered. "We both know that," she gasped. It was taking all her considerable strength just to hang on.

"You got me," she admitted with a resigned smile. "Not like you, right? What's the count? Simmo, Warner, Sarah, Mia, anyone I've forgotten?"

Ferguson didn't respond. Franky put her hand over Ferguson's and pried one of her fingers away from the railing. "Tell you what," she offered suddenly, "how about you 'fess up about all your sins and I'll help you up." She pulled out her phone.

Ferguson managed to swing her other hand up and grab the railing. "Oh no you don't," Franky told her and kicked the hand away again. Ferguson cried out in pain. "Come on," she urged. "Don't leave me hanging." She said with a grin.

Ferguson hissed with sudden anger but didn't speak.

"Suit yourself," Franky shrugged. "I guess it's not that high, maybe you'll only end up a paraplegic. Your choice," she smiled down at Ferguson. She was feeling light-headed. The wound was bleeding freely and she was having trouble stopping it. Ferguson managed to get her free hand up to the railing again. Franky kicked it away, dislodging the knife in the process.  She bent down to retrieve it but it took some effort.

"You torched Sarah Carson's flat, didn't ya?" Franky said conversationally. "She knew what you had planned for Ben Lawson, she set him up with Mia, and you were shit scared Bridget would get her to confess her involvement."

"Your girlfriend is a meddler, Sarah's death was her responsibility." Ferguson refuted.

"She's smart, and she worked you out in a heartbeat," Franky clarified for her.

"She'll work you out too, Doyle, eventually, that's what you're afraid of, isn't it?" Ferguson's eyes met Franky's. They were knowing. "That's why you sabotaged your relationship with her. You think she's too good for you. You're not worthy and you always knew it deep down."

Franky heard some truth in her words. Maybe Bridget was out of her league, maybe that was the reason they hadn't been able to survive.

"You're afraid," Ferguson whispered. " You're still that desperate little girl playing at being a grown-up, hoping no one will notice it's all just a façade."

Franky made a conscious effort to push herself away from the railing. "Your arm must be aching by now, another 30 seconds will feel like a lifetime, still wanna play this game, Freak?" She asked.

"You think that strength comes from physicality but the most powerful muscle is the mind," Ferguson told her. "People always underestimate me, what I'm capable of, how far I'll go."

"How far's that?" Franky asked, but if she was hoping for a confession she was disappointed.

"Further than you, Franky, I think that's the point," Ferguson told her. Franky wanted desperately to sit down. She felt weak, like her legs wouldn't hold her for much longer. Her top was soaked with blood now, as was the hand that was pressed against it. She thought about the locked front door. Was there another way out, she wondered, or would she bleed to death on this balcony? Ferguson's voice was beginning to fade in and out. "I'll stop at nothing but you, even now you don't have the courage to end this."

"You reckon?" Franky laughed. "See I don't need to kill you. I just have to walk away." She shrugged with effort.

"But you won't," Ferguson said with a smile.

"Watch me," Franky answered in deadly earnest. She straightened, only then realising she had been almost bent double in pain, and took a step backward then another. By the time she reached the sliding door she was done. She fell. Her phone skidded across the floor of the balcony and slid through a gap in the iron railing before falling to the pavement below. She wasn't sure how long she lay there, fading in and out of consciousness.  She heard the tremendous roar Ferguson let out as she heaved herself back onto the verandah.  She wanted to save herself.  She gripped the knife tightly in her hand.

Bridget was still at the prison. She heard Vera's purposeful stride outside her office then a light tap at her door. "Bridget," the Governor greeted her. "I heard you were working late."

"No rest for the wicked," Bridget said with a smile, looking up from her laptop.

"This place should be like Vegas then," Vera said with a smile. "May I?" She asked, indicating the chair across from the psychologist's desk.

"Of course," Bridget waited expectantly.

"Ferguson's been released," Vera told her. "All charges against her have been dropped." Vera sounded outraged. "She'll be back, and hellbent on revenge. None of us are safe."

Bridget was frowning. "Surely the Board won't reinstate her," she exclaimed.

"They may not have a choice," Vera warned. She watched as Bridget picked up a piece of paper from her printer. "Anyway, I thought you should know."

"Thanks," Bridget said absently, she sighed. "Look, this might not be the best moment to give you this," she handed over the print-out.

Vera scanned the contents quickly. "You're resigning? Why?" She sounded disappointed.

"Many reasons," Bridget said, "but none of them related to you," she reassured her. "I've enjoyed working with you. You've grown into this role over the last few months and I've found you very supportive and a capable governor."

When Vera had left, Bridget picked up her phone and called Franky. She wanted to warn her about Ferguson's release. The call just rang out.  She had a strange sense of déjà vu.

"Franky, Franky wake up!" The voice was urgent and reached her through the pain. "We've got to get out of here."

A face came into focus. It was young, female and familiar. The girl grabbed her arm and pulled her up into a sitting position. Lying next to her was Joan Ferguson.

"She's dead," Mia said, answering the unasked question.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	23. Dead and Dangerous

"Ding Dong! The Witch is dead. Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch! Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead."

Franky stirred.

The refrain came again. "Ding Dong! The Witch is dead. Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch! Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is...." It cut out abruptly.

Dead. What the fuck? It sounded joyous and bizarrely appropriate. Ferguson was dead. And that made her feel strangely joyous. Her mind drifted.

She heard Mia talking. She sounded agitated. "I can't just dump her! Her side has been opened up like she's been filleted."

"Hospital," Franky murmured. Her voice was a whisper and it sounded strange. She barely recognised it.

"She'll die, that's why," Mia was saying with frustration into her phone. Franky saw the girl glance at her and frown as she listened to the response from whoever had called her. "I guess I could leave her here," she said, contemplating her options, "on the pavement, someone would find her, right?"

"Hospital," Franky mouthed again. Her eyes imploring the teenager. She pulled out the car key from her jacket pocket and attempted to toss it to Mia. It fell into her lap. Could the kid even drive? She needed Jenna, she thought suddenly with wry humour, because at least her half-sister knew how the fuck to drive.

Mia's voice faded as Franky lost consciousness again.

Bridget left the prison not long after her conversation with Vera. She couldn't shake the feeling that, just like last time Ferguson walked out of the psychiatric hospital, something bad was about to happen. Ever since Ferguson had told Erica Davidson that the Minister's little problem would disappear, Bridget suspected Mia Campbell would suffer a similar fate to Sarah Carson if Ferguson was freed. She needed to be warned at the very least. The problem was Bridget didn't even know where to start looking for Mia Campbell. She thought about Franky. It had been Franky who had traced Mia in the first place. Bridget didn't know how she had managed it but when she had seen her text she had been impressed but unsurprised. Franky had a unique skill set that surpassed more conventional capabilities. Franky could find her and warn her, if only Bridget could find Franky.

Erica looked across at Louisa Kelly. The dark haired woman was writing something on a post-it note she had on the kitchen bench. From what she had heard of the conversation it had sounded like a positive outcome. She felt relieved. She would make amends by finding Mia Campbell. Then Franky would forgive her and the sick, anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach would recede.

"Okay," Louisa said as she put down her phone. "I've got her friend Stevie's address. She told me she was headed to his place tonight." She looked at Erica. "I'll drive," she decided.

Erica just nodded.

"How are you feeling?" Louisa asked as she pulled into the traffic. "You must be anxious about her getting out." Erica had revealed to Louisa that Ferguson's release was imminent. She glanced across at Erica when she didn't get a response, "that was quite an ordeal Ferguson put you through."

"I'm fine," Erica said. She didn't want to talk about Ferguson. She didn't want to remember how it felt when she realised she was going to die. The sickening terror that had overwhelmed her. She had shaken uncontrollably as Ferguson had leant in and sniffed, smelling her fear that sweated from every pore, so strong even she could smell it. The way her courage had deserted her and she had begged. They were her darkest moments and she had learnt things about herself she didn't want to acknowledge to anyone, friend or foe. Still, she had survived and she wasn't going to let it affect her. Ferguson wasn't going to win. She stared out at the streetscape.

She felt Louisa's hand on her own, warm and comforting, then it was gone. Erica didn't know how long she had been lost in her thoughts when Louisa spoke. "Do you think Ferguson will go after Mia?"

Erica thought about Franky's conviction. She had seemed so sure. "Yes," she said with sudden certainty.

"We better find her first then," Louisa said. Her tone was a comforting mixture of calm confidence and determination.

They pulled up in front of a rundown terrace house. It looked deserted. "Are you sure this is the place?" Erica asked dubiously.

Louisa knocked on the front door. Erica waited on the pavement. As she looked up at the second storey she heard a familiar ring tone and glanced around. She found the phone lying face down in the gutter next to a parked car. The glass face was fractured so Erica could barely make out the name of the caller on the display. "Hello?" She said tentatively when she answered.

"Franky?"

"It's Erica Davidson," she said, feeling perplexed.

"Can I please speak to Franky?" Bridget Westfall asked with forced patience.

"No," Erica replied, "she's not here." A feeling of dread washed over her as two things became apparent. Franky, whose mobile was like an extension of herself, had parted company with her phone and that meant something was very wrong indeed.

"Where is she?" Given her comments at the Thomas Embling Hospital, the psychologist suspected Erica of deliberate shepherding tactics. "This is important," she felt obliged to add.

Erica detected impatience in Bridget Westfall's tone. "I don't know," she admitted. "Honestly," she added when she heard Bridget's frustrated sigh. "Her phone is here but there's no sign of Franky, or anyone for that matter," she added as Louisa came away from the door with a shake of her head.

"Where's here?" Bridget asked blankly.

"Mia Campbell's bolt hole," Erica told her. "Louisa and I came looking for her but," Erica looked up curiously at the upper level. There was a light on in the front room on the second storey. "Obviously Franky had the same idea," she finished with. There was silence at the other end of the line and Erica thought about hanging up.

"Look," Bridget said suddenly. "Ferguson has been released, I expect you knew that," she added. "I'm worried about Franky," she admitted. "If Ferguson has gone after Mia as I suspect she will, what if Franky ran into her?"

Erica didn't respond. She looked again to the second storey and the light. Was Franky up there? In trouble maybe?

"You've got her phone," Bridget pointed out. "Check and see what number she last called," she suggested.

Erica put the call on speaker and checked the call log. "Laura Prescott, it was a brief call," she had a thought. "She also received a text message giving this address."

"Who was that from?" Bridget asked quickly.

"Not one of her contacts," Erica told her.

"Maybe you should try ringing it," Bridget suggested.

It was a good idea. "Yes, I will." She watched as Louisa crouched down and studied the pavement.

This time Erica was about to hang up when Bridget spoke again. "Does Franky have a number for Mia in her phone?"

"She does," Erica said without checking. She remembered Franky saying she had tried to call Mia without success.

"What's her number?" Bridget asked. "It's possible Franky found her." Erica found it in the contacts and read it out. "I'll call her." Bridget told her, "and let you know how I get on."

Erica thanked her. "I'll do the same," she offered in kind, surprising herself in the process. Circumstances can make the strangest bedfellows, she reflected as she rang off. If she and Bridget ended up pooling their resources in an effort to find Franky it would be ironic.

"No answer," Bridget and Erica said in unison when their call connected five minutes later. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so serious.

There was a pause as each woman waited for the other to speak. "I called Laura Prescott," Erica offered after a moment. "Franky borrowed her car."

"Oh," Bridget said enlightened.

"She told Laura she was going up to Wendouree to see a man about a motorbike," Erica elaborated.

Bridget felt herself relax. "She's all right then," she said, sounding more matter of fact than she felt.

"I think that was just an excuse," Erica burst her bubble immediately. "She told me she was going to find Mia, she took a knife with her and," Erica paused.

Bridget heard something in the lawyer's usually reasoned tones. "And what?" She prompted, annoyed with Erica for holding out.

"And there's blood, on the pavement here, quite a bit of blood," she revealed. "We know she was here, we know she had a weapon, we know Franky." Erica's lawyer mind laid out the facts. Later she would weave another story with those same facts.

Bridget knew what Erica was implying but she refused to contemplate it. There could be a hundred different explanations for the blood. Then she remembered Franky's words to her during the blackout at her flat. Franky had regretted not killing Ferguson. "No," she said firmly. She did know Franky. She wasn't the same person who had entered Wentworth five years ago. "She's not a killer."

"She would defend herself," Erica pointed out, "to the death if she had to."

It was a game of one up where knowing Franky best was the prize. Bridget gave Erica the last word. None of it mattered if Franky lay dead somewhere.

"I'm calling the police," she said suddenly.

"And say what exactly?" Erica asked. "There's no crime here, not at the moment at least, so they'll ignore you or worse," she didn't bother saying what the worse might be. Bridget Westfall would be smart enough to work it out on her own. "We need to protect Franky," she said with a warning note.

Bridget bristled slightly. "Is that what you were thinking when you chose to negotiate on behalf of Ferguson's release?"

Erica was annoyed but she held it. "I don't really think this is the moment," she said coolly. She wasn't going to justify her actions to Bridget Westfall. Her reasons had been sound in her opinion and she would explain them to Franky if her girlfriend ever gave her the opportunity.

"How convenient for you," Bridget replied.

"My point is," still Erica refused to rise to the bait, "this isn't helping matters. I need to find-" Erica heard beeps as the call disconnected. She couldn't believe Bridget Westfall had hung up on her.

Bridget heard the call drop out. She tried calling back but the call went straight through to Franky's voicemail. As Erica had been talking when it disconnected she could only assume the phone had lost reception or the battery had died. She called Mia Campbell's number again. She couldn't think of anything else to do.

Mia's phone was ringing. She glanced at it. It was an unknown number so she ignored it. The car swerved slightly as she hastily corrected her line. She adjusted the rear view mirror and saw Franky had slumped sideways in the back seat, her head resting awkwardly against the armrest. Mia couldn't tell if she was alive or dead. Her hands hurt from the vicelike grip she had on the steering wheel. Driving the Golf, with its light touch and zippy pick up in traffic, was more difficult than the quad bike she was used to mucking about on at the 120 acre property her parents had up near Taradale.

She had compromised in the end. Franky's green eyes, no less disturbing when they were glazed in pain, had summoned in Mia a strange feeling of obligation. This woman had stood up to Sarah's aunt without trepidation, even when the odds were so heavily stacked against her. There was no possible way she could survive and yet somehow she had. Mia couldn't have left her to fend for herself and lived with the guilt. Stevie had bolted at the first opportunity only to call later telling Mia to ditch the bitch and save herself. She was furious with him for being the weak, pathetic bastard she knew him to be. Had always known and had ignored because it suited her to let him hang about. Where the fuck were the good people in this world? The ones who did the right thing regardless of personal risk and consequences.

She pulled up at the hospital's emergency department. She thought about dumping Franky onto the pavement and driving off leaving her fortunes to chance. When she opened the door and looked at the unconscious body she found she couldn't do it. Not with all the will in the world. Instead she put Franky's arm around her and struggled to get her out of the car. "You've got to help me," she urged. They made slow progress towards the entrance. Someone helped her as soon as she was inside, taking the dead weight and carrying Franky. Mia watched as a nurse came forward and greeted them. In the confusion she was able to slip away, her conscience soothed. They would not meet again she guessed but she would always wonder what happened to the girl with the green eyes. She dropped the key to the Golf into a nearby rubbish bin and disappeared into the night.

Her phone started ringing again. The call was from the same unknown number that had called her several times before. She stared at it until finally it stopped ringing. After a minute she heard the inevitable soft ping signalling the arrival of a voicemail message. She dialled in, curious, and listened to the message.

"Mia," it was a woman, "you don't know me but my name is Bridget Westfall." She had a warm, friendly voice. "I'm looking for Franky Doyle. Please call me back," the voice sounded a little desperate in its plea. "I don't want to get you into trouble, I just want to know Franky is safe. If you know anything about her whereabouts, please help me. She means the world to me," the voice broke and Mia realised the emotion behind the words. "Please," she rang off abruptly.

Mia stood on the edge of the curb in two minds. The light was green to cross but she hesitated. She could ignore the message. It was the easier, safer option. She took a step out onto the road just as the pedestrian light changed to red. She stepped back. Some habits were so entrenched in her that she acted on them without thinking. Her mother's voice cautioning her younger self to wait until the green man appeared before crossing road echoed in her head regardless of her complete rejection of that life.

The woman had sounded genuine in her desperation, she thought as she waited. She googled her name and found her LinkedIn profile. Bridget Westfall was a psychologist, nothing to do with the police. She noticed a reference to volunteer work with the Open Pathways Foundation, which was the same organisation Lou Kelly worked for. She thought about Franky. The light changed to green and she crossed.

Bridget was crying. She had rung off quickly as her emotions overwhelmed her. She felt so incapacitated. Franky was in trouble and she had no way of helping her other than desperate pleas to strangers. She had made so many mistakes with Franky. Now she could only rue the missed opportunities she'd had to rectify things. In the hospital after the fire when she had been ready to forgive and forget, and Franky had seemed surprised but open to that. Then again in the cafe, while Ferguson was outplaying them, and Franky had opened up and tried to explain her feelings. Lastly, in Franky's flat when it seemed they had cleared some of the misunderstandings between them and Franky had fallen asleep. What if she had stayed that night? She had felt something between them, something beyond honesty and respect, something deep and timeless. Now it was too late.

Her phone vibrated. She glanced at the text and straightened. "St Vincent's," it read, "key is in the bin."

"Thank you," she murmured with heartfelt relief and sent a return text echoing that sentiment. She didn't understand the second part of the text but the first was clear enough. Franky was at St Vincent's hospital, which sounded bad, but it was better than not knowing anything. Bridget grabbed her keys.

Franky woke up feeling drowsy but happy. "Hey spunky," she gave the nurse a broad grin, "any chance of breakfast in bed?"

"It's after midnight," the nurse told her, "so no," she smiled to soften the disappointment.

"I'm ravenous," Franky said conversationally. "I could eat a horse," she grinned, "except I wouldn't," she added as an after thought. "Hey, where are you going?" She asked, disappointed, as the nurse walked towards the door. "Come on," she implored, "Don't leave me here all on my own," she smiled and her eyes flirted.

"Well if you're up for a visitor," the nurse responded. "There is someone here to see you. It's not strictly protocol but she's very insistent."

"Sure," Franky agreed happily. "Ding dong the witch is dead," she sang under her breath as she waited. She felt fantastic. Then she saw Bridget. "Gidge!" She noticed Bridget's hair was shorter and the golden highlights were more pronounced. She was stylish in a new outfit which Franky hadn't seen before. "Aren't you looking good," she grinned.

Bridget smiled at her. It was a tight smile, the type which held on to emotion rather than revealing it. "Franky!" She breathed her name with relief. "How are you feeling?" She put her hand on Franky's arm and squeezed it lightly.

"Fantastic," Franky told her.

Bridget shot a questioning look to the nurse. "It's the drugs," the nurse told her. "She'll be like this for a bit. Don't be surprised by anything she says right now." She looked at Franky. "No excitement," she instructed her.

Bridget turned her attention back to Franky, whose eyes were watching her intently.

"I'm an invalid," Franky said seriously, as though Bridget somehow might not realise that.

Bridget studied her curiously. "Yes," she said with a confused smile.

Franky leant forward. "So I should get whatever I want," she said in a low conspiratorial voice. "You know how it works, it's like your birthday, and hey today also happens to be my birthday so..."

"It's not your birthday," Bridget corrected her.

"Isn't it?" Franky paused, thinking.

"No," Bridget confirmed. "But you are an invalid," she said with an affectionate smile. "So..."

"So, I get what I want today," Franky finshed triumphantly.

"Okay," Bridget said with a laugh. She had been on edge waiting for Franky to come out of surgery, fearing the worst. She had been so anxious that she couldn't begin to believe everything would be okay. Yet here she was, laughing with Franky as though nothing had happened. "And what exactly do you want?" She asked expectantly.

"What do I want?" Franky repeated. She leant forward, closer to Bridget, studying her intently. "I want you to smile at me the same way you did when you got out of your car at Wentworth the day I was released," Franky told her. "I fucking love that smile."

Bridget's heart lurched and lifted. Franky sounded so sincere it took Bridget a moment to remember it was the drugs talking. Even so she smiled, a relaxed open genuine smile that was drawn from her by Franky's bizarre request. She would give this girl anything, and that was the simple truth.

"There it is," Franky said with a satisfied sigh. She sank back into her pillows feeling suddenly tired.

"Anything else you'd like?" Bridget asked, still smiling.

"Nope," Franky replied. She lay there with her warm eyes resting on Bridget.

She reached out and took Bridget's hand in her own. She was humming a tune under her breath. Bridget watched her, her eyes soft but her mind busy with questions. How the fuck did Franky end up in a hospital bed with her side sliced open with a paring knife? If it had been any other type of knife, the surgeon had said, they couldn't have saved her. The depth of the blade saved her life, it had missed her vital organs by millimetres. Could a desperate Mia Campbell do this? Could it have been Ferguson? If it was the latter why didn't she finish the job and where the hell was she now?

"We should talk," Bridget said her, "when you're feeling better."

"You love to talk, don't you Gidge," Franky smiled lazily.

"And you prefer action," Bridget acknowledged, smiling back. Franky didn't respond. Bridget thought she was drifting off.

"Ding dong, the witch is dead," Franky sang under her breath, her eyes closed. Bridget stared at her. There was a contented smile on Franky's face. "Hey Gidge!" Franky's green eyes suddenly appeared. "Wanna hear something funny?"

Bridget nodded with a slight smile. Franky was unlike any version of Franky she had ever met.

"Come here then," Franky commanded. Bridget shuffled to the edge of her chair. "No, no, here," she said impatiently, and gestured to the edge of her bed. Bridget propped uncomfortably. "Closer," she urged. Bridget leant in and Franky put her hand to her head drawing her in. She brushed Bridget's hair away from her ear and leant in. For a moment Franky said nothing. Bridget could feel her warm breath against her ear. She held her breath in anticipation. "Ferguson's dead," Franky whispered.

Bridget had opened her mouth slightly to express her surprise when Franky's finger pressed against her lips silencing her. "Listen!" She urged, "we're free of her. She can't touch us now." Her eyes burned into Bridget's with a strange excitement, her pupils dilated slightly from the drugs. Bridget didn't know whether to believe her or not.

She elected for the former. "What happened?"

Franky's brow creased. "I don't know," she murmured then laughed. "I have no fucking idea, Gidge!" She admitted almost gaily.

"Would Mia know?" Bridget asked after a moment.

Franky had a vague memory of Mia Campbell talking on the phone. When that had happened though she didn't know. She looked at Bridget's concerned expression. She wished her mind didn't seem so like a kaleidoscope of constantly shifting pieces and patterns. "I don't know," she said eventually. Franky had a vague unsettling memory at the edge of her consciousness.

Bridget looked at her with sympathy. There was no point pushing Franky for answers just now. "You should rest," she said instead. She put her hand against Franky's cheek and held it there. "You're safe," she murmured, "that's all that matters right now."

A voice interrupted her. "I see you found Franky," Erica Davidson said in an icy voice.

Bridget jumped and turned to see her framed in the doorway, looking sleek with her good looks and classic style, and decidedly pissed off, Bridget thought. She slipped off the bed and crossed her arms, facing her.

"As did you," she pointed out.

"No thanks to you," came the lightning bolt reply.

There was a moment of undisguised dislike between them.

When Erica had finally managed to find a Samsung charger for Franky's phone, she was thoroughly frustrated and anxious about Franky's whereabouts. Mia Campbell could fend for herself she had decided at some point. Her main concern was now Franky. The blood on the pavement bothered her greatly, the abandoned phone added to her concerns, nothing about those two suggested a calm, controlled situation. Franky had taken a knife with her and nothing about that boded well either. Franky was not hot-headed except when her back was against the wall. She would have taken the knife to defend herself and Franky was a whippet next to Ferguson. Erica had seen in Wentworth how strong a crazed person could be. The match would not be even if it came to a fight and she was very much afraid it had done just that.

Then Franky's phone had begun ringing. Erica had answered it immediately. "It's Laura Prescott," the caller had announced. "I've just had a call from the police. My car was abandoned out the front of St Vincent's. It was blocking the ambulances so they have towed it."

If Franky had managed to drive herself to hospital then surely she was going to be okay. It would just be some superficial wounds that needed attending, Erica had convinced herself.

Now seeing her in intensive care, hooked up to machines that monitored her heart and blood pressure, brought home the seriousness of her situation. Franky's glance passed over her and she seemed to register her presence. The expression in them wasn't as cold and dismissive as when she had last seen them. She took that as a good sign and stepped into the room.

"Franky," she began, "How did this happen?" She watched her girlfriend. She couldn't help but feel partly responsible. She had sent Franky into harm's way by her actions. "Jesus, look at you," she murmured.

"You should see the other chick," Franky said jokingly.

Erica watched her for a moment. Seeing her now reminded Erica that Franky was not invincible regardless of how well she could portray that image. She should never have let her go alone after Mia, she thought ruefully.

She approached the bed but the green eyes darted around the room without settling anywhere. "What did the surgeon say?" She asked of Bridget, her eyes never leaving the patient.

"That she was lucky," Bridget told her.

"Franky, who did this to you?" Erica asked, even now there was a part of her that held out some hope it hadn't been Ferguson.

"Ding Dong! The Witch is dead. Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch! Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead." Franky sang softly.

"She is high on the drugs they have given her," Bridget told her, "you won't get any sense out of her. We are better off letting her sleep it off."

Erica felt irritated even though she knew what Bridget was saying made sense. "Why didn't you call me and tell me Franky was here?" She challenged. "I thought we were collaborating."

"Franky's phone had died, so I had no way of contacting you," Bridget offered in explanation.

"That isn't true though, is it?" Erica sounded like a lawyer on cross-examination. "You knew Louisa was with me and you have her number, don't you?"

Bridget nodded. "You're right, I do," she admitted, unapologetic.

Erica suddenly felt exhausted. The emotional roller coaster she had been on that evening had finally caught up with her. She wasn't out of the woods with Franky, she knew, but that paled in comparison with how the evening might have ended. She was too tired to waste her last drops of energy having an argument with Bridget Westfall.

The nurse returned, herding them out, telling them Franky needed to rest and to come back tomorrow.

Erica turned back to Franky and brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead then kissed her lightly there. "I'll see you in the morning," she told her.

"Not if I see you first," she said then laughed at her own joke.

Bridget didn't go home immediately. Instead she sent a text to Mia Campbell. Now she was in her car in a lonely, dark carpark, waiting, not even sure she wasn't wasting her time. It was after one am and she would rather have been in bed asleep. It had started to rain making visibility poor so when there was a tap on the front passenger window she jumped slightly. She wound down the window.

"Thank you for coming," she said immediately, taking in the girl's appearance curiously. She thought about what she knew of the teenager. Mia Campbell had had a privileged upbringing but something had steered her off course and into a life of drug addiction, prostitution, blackmail and living rough. Her obvious good looks were dulled somewhat by haunted eyes, pale skin and under nourished features. The shiny blonde locks she remembered from the photograph Franky had shown her were now dull and unkempt as though personal grooming had been a struggle recently. "Please get in the car," she said, "you're soaked through." She saw the girl hesitate. She pulled the keys out of the ignition and put them on the passenger seat. "I just want to talk," she reassured her.

After a moment Mia opened the door and slid into the seat. "How's Franky?" She asked immediately. The car keys jingled in her hands as she fiddled restlessly.

"Alive," Bridget told her then added, "thanks to you," Bridget watched her, "I'm right, aren't I?" The girl shrugged. "Who did that to her? Was it Joan Ferguson?" She asked directly.

Silence. Bridget saw a pair of brown eyes look past her warily into the darkness. "Joan Ferguson's dead," Mia said at last.

So it was true what Franky had told her. "How?"

The story Mia Campbell told was bizarre to say the least, and perhaps completely imagined through a drug induced haze. Bridget couldn't ignore that possibility.

"Franky told me Joan Ferguson would be coming for me," Mia began, "and she wanted me to set her up," she explained.

"Franky did?"

"Yeah," Mia confirmed. "I agreed to do it, Franky was very persuasive," Bridget could just imagine the tactics Franky might employ. It would be charm or coercion and both were equally effective.

"But you changed your mind," Bridget guessed accurately.

"Sarah was dead, I knew, and her aunt was...I don't know, creepy. It seemed smarter just to drop out of circulation. I'd done it before. My friend Stevie had a place where I could hole up for awhile, at least until I had a plan. I told him about Franky so if she came sniffing round he'd put her off. She found me so quickly the first time. The fuckwit followed her though," she sounded exasperated, "and she clocked him. He must have led her straight to his place."

Bridget remembered Erica's comment about a bolt-hole. "What happened?"

"When he got home he told me about his altercation with her in the park. I knew she wouldn't be far away. He'd barely finished telling me when we heard someone trying to jimmy the lock." Bridget was sceptical that Franky would attempt to break and enter but she didn't interrupt. "Stevie's place has a cellar, some dodgy reno, which you can access from the Harry Potter cupboard under the stairs. They probably planned to use it for storing wine back in the day but water leaches in from the ground and its damp. Anyway, we hid down there."

"Did Franky find you?"

"Whoever it was, now I'm not sure if it was Franky, came in and searched the ground floor, we could hear their footsteps easily enough. They even looked in the Harry Potter but the trap door to the cellar just looks like floorboards and can be closed from the inside. They never noticed it then they went up the stairs. We waited for a awhile then suddenly someone else arrived." Mia had a sudden coughing fit that rattled her chest and lasted longer than was healthy. Eventually she was able to a continue.

"This person was light on their feet." It was Franky, Bridget guessed.  For a girl who liked to announce her presence, Franky could move with cat-like stealth. "They also went upstairs. Then there was running, then voices, and eventually a scuffle. It was hard to tell what was happening. We were about to do a bolt when we heard a third person enter."

"Who?"

Mia shrugged. "No idea, we knew it was a man though," she told Bridget.

"A man?" Bridget sounded surprised, "how did you know?"

"By the tread, it was much heavier," Mia said immediately.

She thought back to the moments before the sound of those footsteps. They had intended on waiting out the intruders, that was the plan until Stevie's phone had suddenly started ringing. He had switched it off fast but it was enough to alert someone to their presence. In a mutual but unspoken decision they scrambled for the trapdoor and clambered out of the tiny cellar. Mia, who was slightly claustrophobic, felt immediate relief despite the potential impending danger. Stevie was opening the door to the hallway when they heard the front door open. He paused, waiting anxiously.

The sound of this man's footfall was loud from where they were hidden. The old house had terrible insulation and sounds carried easily between floors and rooms. It made any kind of recreational activity difficult to do discreetly. Not that Stevie seemed to mind Mia acknowledged but then he was a guy. Their eyes were drawn above them as the footsteps passed up the stairs overhead. Mia glanced at Stevie and saw his rattled expression. He was about to lose it, she knew it. "Come on," she urged, pushing past him and opening the door. Once in the small hallway she waited, ears straining, to see what she could hear. She moved towards the stairs instead of the front door. "I don't know what compelled me to go up those stairs," Mia told Bridget. The psychologist didn't know either but later she thanked whatever gods may be that the girl had.

"Where are you going?" Stevie hissed at her.

She signalled towards the second floor. He shook his head vehemently, which she ignored. Step by cautious step she climbed those stairs, avoiding the creaks she knew were loitering along them, her slight frame proving an advantage. At the top she looked back to see Stevie hadn't followed her. She heard noises coming from the direction of the front room. The door was ajar and she slipped inside. No one was in the room, it was all going down on the balcony. She could see Sarah's aunt grappling with a man, their bodies bending fiercely with each attack, it was hard to tell who had the advantage. Franky was sitting against the window, her positioning awkward. Then Mia saw the knife clasped in Franky's hand, the blood gleamed in the streetlight. Suddenly Joan grabbed at the small knife, claiming possession and using it in a defensive parry. Her feet moved with agility and her thrust forward was unexpected. She had suddenly disarmed her opponent and Mia saw another knife fall hitting Franky before bouncing away. Joan lunged for it, beating the man by a nanosecond to the prize. Now she had him at her mercy. He backed away until his hip pressed against the balcony edge. He cast a look downwards and in that moment Joan struck. Mia wouldn't have believed it except she saw it with her own eyes. Just as Joan Ferguson was making her final victorious move, she fell, dropping ungraciously to her knees. Franky had tripped her, causing her downfall and allowing the stranger to reclaim one of the knives and strike it surely and truly into Joan Ferguson's eye. Mia could still hear the woman's anguished cries in her head. While she watched, horrified and shocked into stillness, he glanced across to Franky and picked up the other knife. Mia suddenly realised his intent. "Hey!" She called, then turned tail and ran, taking the stairs three at a time, pulling open the front door but side stepping it and disappearing into the cupboard under the stairs. Praying the ruse would work, she waited, barely breathing, until she heard him barrel down the stairs and onto the street.

"The rest you know," Mia finished with. "I went back for Franky. Joan Ferguson was already dead." Bridget frowned. She wasn't a medical doctor but she was fairly certain it was difficult to kill someone by stabbing them in the eye. "Is Franky going to be okay?" Mia was asking.

It was dark. Someone had switched off the light. Franky was wide awake and lucid. Her side hurt but it was secondary to the crystal clear thought bubble in her head. Someone had set her up. An anonymous text message had sent her to that house. The unlocked front door had invited her inside. It was so obvious that she wondered how she had fallen for it. Her anger at Erica had fogged her brain, she decided, and she had paid the price. It was only a matter of time before the police showed up.

 

 


	24. Someone's Lying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voting yes.

Erica's phone was buzzing on her bedside table. The illuminated screen lit the immediate vicinity. She grabbed it. Unknown number. Maybe it was the hospital, maybe something had happened to Franky. She'd had surgery, maybe something had gone wrong post op. All this raced through her mind as she stared at the missed call. She looked at the time. 1.42am. She felt like she'd been asleep for two seconds. The phone buzzed again.

"Hello?" She said breathlessly, expectantly.

"Erica? It's Bridget Westfall," said a calm, very awake voice.

"Has something happened to Franky?" Erica asked quickly, feeling suddenly alert. She couldn't think of another reason the psychologist might call her. Her heart tightened and she pulled her doona higher and clung to it, as though to protect herself from the fateful words she knew were coming.

"No," the relief was immediate, "it's not that." There was a pause. She heard the older woman take a breath. "I need your help," Bridget said after a moment.

Of all the things Erica thought Bridget Westfall might have said, that definitely wasn't one of them. She stared at the empty wall. Why didn't she have any pictures, any colour? Franky had called her apartment sterile. She could still hear the slightly flippant tone the message had been delivered in. She remembered Franky's cell with its books and posters of women. She thought about her tattoos. Franky advertised who she was. She loved that about her. "Why would I help you?" Erica asked suddenly. "You're a constant thorn in my side. I don't like you. I don't like the influence you have over Franky." Erica had had enough. She felt threatened by this woman and she knew it was influencing how she responded to Franky. "I want you gone." Even as she said it she knew it was a mistake. It was too honest. It wasn't strategic to expose her feelings like that. She knew if it got back to Franky it would hurt her.

There was silence.

"Then you'll be pleased to know I'm leaving," Bridget said unexpectedly.

"Melbourne?" Erica asked in surprise.

"Yes," the other woman confirmed. Erica was stunned but immediately felt a weight lift. "So now will you help me?"

Erica didn't answer at once and when she did it was on another tangent entirely. "How did you get my number?" Hadn't Bridget claimed she didn't know it?

"From Lou," Bridget replied without emotion. Erica swallowed her annoyance but let the lengthening silence speak for her. "You said we needed to protect Franky, remember?" Bridget reminded her.

"Yes," Erica confirmed, confused.

"I met Mia Campbell tonight," Bridget went on, "after I left the hospital." She recounted the bizarre tale the teenager had told her.

Erica listened in silence. "That's quite a story," she said eventually. "Is that how Franky remembers it?"

"She says she can't remember," Bridget said.

"Then there's no way of corroborating it," Erica pointed out after a moment.

"Do you believe her?" Bridget asked.

"Mia?"

"No, Franky," Bridget clarified.

Erica frowned. "Don't you?"

"I'm worried about Mia's story," Bridget confessed. "The knife in the eye bothers me. There was an incident at Wentworth while Franky was still inside. It involved a prisoner who self-harmed by sticking a pencil in her eye. I'm certain Ferguson was mentally and physically abusing Jodie, planting suggestions in her head, and leaving the pencil in her cell. Franky was very upset about it and was also convinced of Ferguson's involvement." Erica listened in silence. "It's a strange coincidence, don't you think?"

"You think it's payback?" Erica turned the idea over in her mind, her surprise registering in her tone. "Are you saying you think Franky might have killed Ferguson?" She asked a little incredulously. It hadn't even entered her head. In fact her thoughts had taken a very different direction on hearing Mia's story.

"No," Bridget refuted immediately, but that's what it sounded like she had to admit. "But who was this man that Mia claims she saw?" There was scepticism in the psychologist's tone.

Erica wondered. "Ferguson could have countless enemies," she pointed out. "Just because it sounds far fetched doesn't mean it didn't happen."

"Could you defend that story in court?" Bridget asked.

"If I have to," Erica said with certainty, clearly stating her intention to stand by Franky regardless. If Franky needed her help then she would be there for her. In this world where loyalty is not so easily defined as which side you fight for in battle, Erica did not intend to muddy the waters with any considerations of where the truth was hidden and what was right.

"I hope it doesn't come to that," Bridget said. Erica hoped that too. "But I need your help."

Suddenly the stakes seemed much higher and her issues with Bridget Westfall quite trivial. "What do you need?" She asked after a moment.

Bridget told her.

The next afternoon Franky was perched on the side of her hospital bed in a bra and a pair of jeans when Erica walked in.

"What are you doing?" She asked anxiously. "You shouldn't be up." Her eyes were drawn to Franky's side where a large rectangular bandage covered her wound.

Franky glanced at her. "What are you doing here?" She asked abruptly.

"I said I'd come today, last night, don't you remember?" Erica asked with disappointment. Maybe Franky's seeming forgiveness the previous evening really had just been the drugs talking. "We need to talk."

"Can you grab my top," was all Franky said. Erica followed her gaze and noticed it had fallen on the floor.

"Franky, please," she implored. She made no attempt to rescue the t-shirt.

"I got nothing to say to you," Franky told her with finality. She slid off the bed and bent gingerly. Erica's hand beat her to her target.

"Look at you," she said in a softer tone. "You can barely move." She handed over the top and helped Franky back on to the bed.

"I'm okay," Franky said dismissively. She pulled the top over her head, careful not to stretch her side. "And I've gotta find Mia."

"You've remembered what happened then?" Erica asked with interest.

"Not really," Franky admitted, "Bridget talked to Mia and she filled me in."

"Bridget's been to see you today then?" Erica felt like a fisherman on a morning when the fish weren't nibbling.

"Yep," Franky was pulling on her socks. "Ferguson's dead, murdered, and Mia knows what happened."

"I know, Bridget told me, last night," Erica explained.

Franky looked at her. She thought she saw something in Erica's expression that reflected her own fears.

"Bridget thinks I did it, doesn't she?" She said with resignation.

Erica watched Franky's expression tighten, her lips pressed together, her dimples etched sharply into her cheeks, and the lines on her forehead deepening. It was clear she was worried and upset at the thought. Sometimes Franky could be read like an open book, Erica thought, as she processed her words and framed her response.

"She didn't say that," she answered, more to give comfort to Franky than any desire to protect Bridget. The thought behind Bridget's words and her subsequent actions had been exactly that.

"She didn't have to, I could tell by the look on her face," Franky said sadly. She had seen that look before, in Bridget's office at Wentworth when she had confessed to killing Meg Jackson. Franky knew Mia's version of the story must have bothered the psychologist.

"What does it matter what she thinks?" Erica asked tersely. She felt impatient as she always did when confronted by Franky's bias towards Bridget.

It mattered. Franky couldn't lie to herself about that. She cared what Bridget thought. She knew, better than anyone, what Franky was capable of and what she had done. Better than Ferguson? The thought popped into her head unbidden. She forced herself to contemplate it. Ferguson had known what she had done, and the Governor had had an uncanny ability to see into her soul. Franky shook off the thought. Ferguson was dead and couldn't touch her now.

Erica remembered Bridget's news that she was leaving. She wondered if Franky knew. "Let me help you," she said.

Franky studied her, turning her words over and analysing their meaning. "Shit, so do you," she muttered with understanding. She laughed cynically.

"No, that's not true," Erica said quickly. Franky didn't respond and Erica couldn't tell if she believed her. "But," she continued with reluctance, "if Ferguson's body is discovered then questions will be asked. You'll need a lawyer. I'm on your side Franky. Let me help you," she repeated.

"Why wouldn't her body be discovered?" Franky asked.

"What?"

"You said if, if her body is discovered," Franky repeated her words.

Erica's hesitation was barely noticeable but Franky saw it and wondered. "Did I? I meant when," she corrected herself vaguely. She sat down on the bed next to Franky. "Remember when you were in hospital at Wentworth?" She said quietly. Franky's green eyes regarded her curiously. "And I said let me help you?"

Franky nodded. She remembered. Erica had been a fantasy back then, elusive and alluring.

"This time I hope you will let me help you," Erica said firmly, "when the time comes."

"So what did you want to say to me?" Franky asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"That I'm sorry," Erica said sincerely, happy to steer the conversation away from what might happen. It didn't matter to her anymore who was right and who was wrong. It seemed so trivial now.

"You're always going to put your career first, aren't you?" Franky said it with resignation.

Erica hated that she thought that. "No," she refuted immediately, "that's not true."

"What exactly did Ben Lawson offer you for doing his dirty work?" Franky asked directly. Erica was silent as green eyes appraised her.

"Franky," she said with a sigh. "I need to explain."

"Yeah, you do," she agreed.

Erica took a breath. She stood up and walked towards the window, staring out and wondering how to begin. She knew what was at stake. If Franky didn't believe her then she had lost her. Even so she chose not to answer her question directly. "I didn't want Ferguson freed any more than you did." She began, turning to face Franky. "She had Ben completely compromised though, she held the winning hand, Franky." Erica held up her hand when Franky began to refute it. "Listen to me," she urged, "Ben wasn't prepared to take her on. Even if Mia had publicly refuted Ferguson's claims, the damage would have been done. Politics is a game where right and wrong, truth and lies become irrelevant and perception can make or break you. Ben knew that. Even if he wasn't convicted of statutory rape, he would be crucified by the media on a cross of poor judgement and questionable morals. His career and his marriage would be over."

"Tough shit!" Franky said dismissively. "He fucked a fifteen year old girl for kicks. I'd say his morals and his judgement suck."

Erica didn't disagree. Franky was right, had always been right about Ben. Erica had only really seen Ben clearly when she had seen him through Franky's eyes. This had never been about Ben though, not in Erica's mind.

"When Ferguson drugged me and assaulted me," she continued, "I saw what she was like, what she was capable of and it was terrifying. She is a monster." Erica's words caught in her throat.

Franky shook her head. "See, that's what I don't get, Erica. How, after everything she did to you, it's still okay for you to help her!" Franky frowned. It made no sense to her.

"It wasn't about helping her," Erica dismissed the accusation. "After what she did I wasn't going to let her win." She said with determination. "I wanted to show her and prove to myself that I wasn't beaten. I wanted her to know that now I held the cards, that her victory was fleeting. I wanted her to know." Franky heard the desperation behind those words. She knew what it felt like to lose your dignity and want to fight desperately to get it back. "But while we were talking, something she said made me realise that Joan Ferguson would always have the upper hand." Erica took a breath. "I told Ben there had to be a way to stop her," she paused, "and I think he found one."

Franky was staring at her, captured completely by her words and what they might mean. "Jesus, fuck," she murmured after a moment. "He took her out!" Erica didn't say anything. "That's what you're telling me, right?" She knew she wasn't mistaken. The man, a stranger, who had seemed like a red herring, thrown in to confuse the story, now made sense to Franky. "The man Mia says she saw," Erica's blue eyes were fastened on hers. "It was a professional hit," she guessed, looking for confirmation in Erica's carefully schooled features. "He paid someone!" Franky whistled silently. Her green eyes flickered as her mind worked relentlessly. Erica could almost see her looking for pieces to finish the puzzle. "And you knew," she said with sudden understanding. "That's why you weren't concerned when you heard she was being released."

"No," Erica refuted immediately.

"You never blinked an eye, Erica," Franky said pointedly. "Don't bullshit me," she warned.

Erica sighed. "I'm not. Ben never said anything," she explained, "but, he asked me for a name," she admitted, "someone with links to the crime world," she paused.

"And?"

"And I gave him one," Erica waved her hand in defeat.

What name could Erica possibly provide? Franky didn't have the first idea. "Who?"

"Someone I'd done some work for when I was a lawyer in my father's firm." Erica told her, her eyes flicking away briefly as she revealed this. As owner of the Velvet Curtain, Tom knew everyone, which included connections to every shady lowlife in town.

Franky watched her curiously. This was a side to Erica that Franky hadn't discovered. She had always imagined, wrongly it seemed, Erica's previous career being dull days of company law and litigation. "Of course I suspected why he was asking," Erica continued, "but I never questioned him." She stood against the window, the morning sun catching the blonde highlights in her hair and casting her face into shadow. "Joan Ferguson is sick, and dangerous, and I wanted her stopped. I don't deny it," Erica sounded defiant. "You said no one was safe, remember? Well, you were right," she acknowledged.

"Everyone was safe enough while she was behind bars," Franky pointed out.

"Were they?" Erica asked quietly.

Franky frowned. She thought about everything that had happened. No one was safe. Ferguson had a reach that extended beyond bars and secure facilities, and straight into your home. "Fuck Erica, what did she do to you?"

Erica just shook her head. It wasn't about her. Not since the veiled threat to expose Franky had it been about Erica. She thought about Joan Ferguson's gloat, and how dangerous any information might be in the hands of someone like her. She had understood then that there could be something worse than humiliation and desperation and death. It suddenly wasn't enough just to show defiance. Did that mean she was complicit in what had happened? Did she care? She realised in that moment that she didn't. She cared about Franky and what Franky thought and cared about. The rest paled into insignificance. "When you said you were going to find Mia, I didn't realise what was about to go down," she said. "Ben never said anything more to me other than he had secured Ferguson's release. Honestly, I would never have let you walk out that door if I'd known." She saw Franky shift slightly. "Please Franky, you have to believe me."

For Erica the moment seemed to last forever. It was the nanosecond between stumbling at the precipice and regaining your balance; or being dumped by the surf and finding the surface. It was the edge of panic.

"I do," Franky said.

"So we're okay," Erica prompted, needing to be sure. Her hands were gripping the window sill as she leant against it.

Franky watched her. "I don't know Erica," she said at last. She rubbed her eye wearily. "I can't think straight."

Erica smiled. "I don't want you to think straight," she said. "I want you to be crazy in love with me like I am with you. I want you to love my flaws as much as I love yours. I want you confused at the chaos inside your heart because that is how I feel every time I look at you. You found your way into my heart at Wentworth and it has taken me until now to realise it. I'm terrified and exhilarated and certain I want to be with you." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "Not just for today, or the next week or the next year but for always." She pushed herself off the window ledge. "If you don't feel the same," she said quietly, "then maybe we're not okay."

Erica's heels rapped sharply as she walked away, they sounded measured, sure and final. They contrasted sharply with the wildness of her rapidly beating heart. She wanted nothing more than to hear Franky call her back, to give her a reason to stop and turn around to see her future. She was taking an incredible gamble, she knew, but Erica was successful in her career because she was willing to gamble. In the last twenty four hours she had taken more risks than she cared to think about but this now was her biggest gamble. She was risking her heart and her happiness.

Franky's phone was vibrating. She glanced away from Erica's retreating figure and stared at it. Her mind was still reeling from Erica's declaration. She stared at the cracked screen trying to decipher the name. It took her a moment to read it. Shit! She answered it quickly.

"Franky, it's Mia," the teenager sounded rushed and breathless. Franky's heart rate had spiked and settled in that split second between taking the call and hearing Mia's voice. "Ferguson's gone."

"Gone where?" Franky responded, her mind still in catch up, "I thought she was dead."

"She was dead, I swear," Mia assured her. "But she's not here, at the house," she sounded panicked.

"So the police have taken her," Franky concluded.

"No," Mia said with certainty. "The police haven't been here."

"Have you touched anything?" Franky asked quickly.

"No," Mia sounded calmer now.

"Then get the fuck outta there," Franky told her. "Meet me at -" Franky's mind searched for a place.

"Flinders Street station, one hour," Mia said. She rang off.

The train station was crowded. Franky wasn't moving with her usual purpose. She wanted to protect her side from any jostling. She found a vacant piece of wall and propped, watching the passing crowd for Mia's familiar face.

She thought about Ferguson. The cold fish had been slippery enough in life. Now she was dead she was even more trouble. If she was dead. She better be dead. Franky's mind argued with itself. She hadn't gone through everything she had just been through for nothing. She had to be dead. She was dead, Franky reassured herself. How she died and who killed her was a little less easy to answer, she had to admit. Her memory was still vague but she remembered Ferguson looming over her, those black eyes staring at her, she remembered the knife in her hand, and thinking she had to defend herself. She thought she had struck but whether that blade had penetrated or where, she didn't know. After that she couldn't recall anything clearly. She had wanted to talk to Mia to fill in the gaps. Since her phone call, it seemed even more important.

She caught sight of the blonde hair then Mia glanced directly at her. She was raising her hand in acknowledgement when Mia went down, collapsing onto the ground, not moving.

Franky pushed her way through the crowd, a feeling of dread settling like a fog. What the fuck? A crowd had formed and Franky couldn't see past the backs of well-intentioned people. By the time she managed to get to the inner circle, Mia was attempting to sit up.

"What happened?" Franky asked, she looked at Mia with concern.

"She fainted," an onlooker said. "She doesn't look too good. When was the last time you ate, love?"

"Franky," Mia recognised her. There was a haunted look about her.

"Are you okay?" Franky asked, checking her over to see if she'd been injured.

"Must have tripped," the teenager mumbled. She attempted to get up, grabbing hold of Franky to pull herself off the ground.

"Easy," Franky warned, hoping the new, fancy, still experimental glue they had used to put her back together would hold.

The crowd dispersed. "Never thought I'd see you again," Mia said with a slight grin.

"Got lucky I guess," Franky returned the grin.

"Yeah, you did," Mia laughed but it turned into a coughing fit that left her bent double and breathless.

"You seen anyone about that cough?" Franky asked, already knowing what the answer would be. She had lived rough in her time.

"It's nothing," Mia said dismissively.

"Sure," was all Franky said. "Wanna eat?" She asked, remembering the comment from the concerned citizen. Mia shrugged. "Yeah, you do," Franky told her.

They found a place that did burgers. Mia did hers justice. Franky barely touched hers. The food brought some colour back into the teenager's cheeks. Her eyes were still the eyes of a junkie needing a fix though, and Franky wondered how long it had been.

"I know who you are," Mia said once she had finished running her finger around the plate. "You've been to prison. You're a fuck up."

"You can talk," Franky said with a short laugh. "Listen," she said suddenly serious, "don't think you're better than me coz your folks have money and you went to a fancy school." She sat back.

"I don't," Mia mumbled. She sulked while Franky finished her coffee.

"Now talk," Franky demanded as she set down her mug, "and not that bullshit you told Bridget Westfall either." Mia opened her mouth to say something. "I know it's bullshit." Franky cautioned her. "People I care about think I did it because of that story about the knife in the eye."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" Franky looked reproachful.

"Maybe you did," Mia suggested with a sly smile. "Have you considered that?"

"Or maybe you did," Franky countered. "I told you that story to show you what Ferguson was capable of, then suddenly she gets it in the eye," Franky raised her eyebrows sceptically. "Seems like a hellva coincidence to me."

"Is this the thanks I get for saving your arse? Good to know," Mia muttered.

"You're changing the subject," Franky said immediately. She knew all the tricks in the book for avoiding conversations or deflecting suspicion. She was a master.

"I'm not lying," Mia insisted, "there was a man. Do you think I could make that shit up?" Except for Erica's corroboration with her tale about a professional hit, Franky thought it was entirely possible.

"All right, so there was some random guy, but did he kill Ferguson?" Franky pushed for answers.

"Yes," Mia said firmly. "I'm not bullshitting, Franky."

"Except for the bit where he stabs her in the eye, huh?" Franky pointed out. "I don't care if you did it, Mia, she fucking deserved it and more. But I'm not going down for it, got it? If the cops come for me then I will sell you out."

"Well, how are they going to do that without a body?" Mia argued. "I'd say we are both in the clear."

Said with the naivety and optimism of youth, Franky thought as she watched Mia racked with another coughing fit. It bothered her that the body was missing. There were only two explanations she could think of, one, that Mia was actually telling the truth. A professional hitman had taken out Ferguson and returned to tidy up. In which case, there would be no evidence left at the scene whatsoever if the guy was good at his job. Or two, Ferguson wasn't dead and would turn up to weave whatever story she chose about the occurrences that night. It was the second scenario which bothered Franky.

"Get rid of that phone," Franky said suddenly. "How did you get it?" When she had seen Ferguson's name flash up on her screen at the hospital she hadn't believed her eyes. She had saved Ferguson's number into her contacts the night Erica had been terrorised by her. It had seemed like a smart move at the time but it had almost given her a heart attack that morning.

"I checked her pockets for any cash," Mia said. "I found thirty bucks and the phone."

"Anything else?"

The question was casual. Mia hesitated. "No," she answered after a moment. The green eyes continued to regard her until she looked away.

"Wipe the phone then toss it," Franky advised.

"My phone's out of credit," Mia whined.

"Don't be a fucking idiot," Franky said harshly. "It will connect you to Ferguson." She stood up, slowly and carefully. "We're done here," she said abruptly. She left without saying goodbye.

Erica opened the door to Franky but didn't greet her. "I'm busy," she said and walked back into the apartment. Franky followed after a moment with a resigned smile.

Erica was standing on a stool in the lounge area, her back to Franky, attempting to mount some artwork on the wall. She was wearing short denim cutoffs and a loose fitting navy t-shirt with a plunging v neckline. Franky noticed her toned calves as Erica stretched a little higher. She had bare feet and her colourful toenails looked sexy. In fact Erica looked sexy. Franky stood quietly, happy to admire the view, feeling the effects of her admiration. Erica's hair was up in a casual style and Franky could see her slender neck. Fuck, Erica wasn't even trying and yet somehow, even that was a turn on.

"What are you doing?" Franky asked, hoping Erica would look over her shoulder so Franky could admire her profile and the curve of her breast.

"Adding some colour," Erica replied without turning round.

Franky had to be content with admiring the curve of her arse. She found herself moving forward. The urge to put her hands on the backs of those thighs and run her fingers upward was overwhelming. Just before she reached her, Erica turned. She wasn't wearing a bra, Franky noticed immediately as she stepped off the stool, and her nipples were defined through the thin material of her top. Franky had trouble shifting her eyes away.

"It's not straight," Franky told her, dragging her eyes upwards and capturing Erica's. There was a gleam in them, she knew, and she wondered if Erica knew what she'd been thinking about.

Erica turned back and studied the picture for a moment. She climbed back onto the stool and adjusted the frame. While her hands were occupied, Franky slid her own hands up Erica's thighs. She heard her gasp. Franky's thumbs continued upwards until they slipped under the edge of the shorts. She kissed the soft skin just below her butt cheek. Her hands moved around Erica's hips, pulling her back against her mouth.

"Franky," Erica gasped.

"Get down," Franky ordered hoarsely. She didn't even know if sex was possible in her current condition but she was willing to give it a crack. Erica had put her libido into overdrive.

Erica did as she was told. She turned around and stepped down into Franky's arms. They kissed, mouths open, tongues sliding over each other, no restraint. "You make me so horny," Franky confessed in a whisper. Her hands had found the edge of Erica's t-shirt and they slipped inside and up towards those firm, free breasts. The nipples were rock hard as Franky's hands caressed them. She pinched them as her tongue slid deeper into Erica's mouth. She felt Erica's hands in her hair drawing her closer. "Let's fuck," Franky suggested in a low voice. She knew what to say to get Erica fired up. For all her pristine looks, Erica liked her sex rough and the talk dirty. It was after sex that she wanted her romance.

Erica had spent the rest of the afternoon regretting her disclosure, wishing she hadn't chosen that moment to tell Franky how she felt, doubting her future. Now she pulled away. "Are you serious?" She said in disbelief.

"I am actually," Franky said with a cocky smile. She kissed Erica's throat.

"Franky, I said I love you," Erica said with a frown. "And your response to that is let's fuck?" She asked incredulously.

Franky saw her mistake. "No, of course not," she said with a sigh. She dropped her arms to Erica's waist but didn't break their embrace. "I'm sorry about before," she said sincerely. "I thought Ferguson was calling me," she explained.

"Ferguson?" This distracted Erica. She was frowning.

"Yeah, only it wasn't, Mia had swiped her phone," Franky went on, "I met up with her in the city, that's where I've been til now. Ferguson's body has disappeared." Franky told her, hoping her news would distract Erica.

"Really?" Erica caressed Franky's cheek. "That's odd." She saw Franky's mind working. "Maybe Ben's man also cleans up," she suggested.

"I hope that's it," Franky said grimly.

"Would else could it be?" Erica asked innocently.

Franky felt Erica's hands slide into the back pockets of her jeans pulling her into a closer embrace. She could feel Erica's thighs against her own. Then Erica kissed her. "Ferguson...alive," Franky managed to get out before Erica's mouth completely claimed her own. The kiss left them both breathless and distracted by their bodies' responses.

"Fuck, Erica," Franky gasped, "you better stop if you don't want me tearing your clothes off and fucking you senseless."

In response Erica slid her thigh between Franky's legs and pulled her closer. "What are you waiting for?" She murmured.

Franky knew she was being distracted. Erica's actions were in complete contradiction to her earlier statements. Her lust filled mind couldn't rationalise it though and she had no intention of stopping to work it out. So she let it go and let Erica manipulate her.

She didn't bother slowing down to find a comfortable surface. She pulled off Erica's t-shirt and put her mouth on those erect nipples, her tongue sliding over them in swirls. She turned Erica around so her butt was pressing against Franky's groin. Her hand replaced her mouth on Erica's breasts, rubbing and pinching or pulling each nipple in turn. Her other hand slid south, quickly unbuttoning Erica's shorts then unzipping them. Her hand slid into the hot wet folds of her pussy. She heard Erica catch her breath as her fingers slid downwards towards her opening. She flicked her clit with her thumb. She felt Erica dropping to her knees and she followed her, keeping behind her. As she entered her Franky pulled her back against her groin. She was wet herself and Erica's weight pressing against her was providing a delicious pressure. Her fingers hooked upward and Erica gasped. She was so wet. Franky kissed her throat as her fingers pumped faster, responding to Erica's verbals. She couldn't see her face until she glanced up and realised the mirror across the room provided the perfect reflection. Her hand sliding inside the lacy underwear, glimpses of Erica's engorged sex through the lace, was so hot but watching Erica's face and seeing her unrestrained pleasure had her almost coming. "Open your eyes," she demanded suddenly.

Erica's blue eyes appeared in the mirror, intense and completely focused on Franky's stare. Then her eyes dropped lower and she watched with fascination the reflection of Franky fucking her. She couldn't believe how it heightened the sensations she was experiencing. Her arm wound around the back of Franky's neck and she watched her breasts lift, distracted by her nipples that were so swollen and pointed. She reached up with her free hand and pinched one.  God, it was so erotic. She wanted to watch forever, getting wetter and wetter, in that blissful state of full arousal just moments away from release. It was too much though, she could feel herself exploding. "Look at me," she heard Franky say roughly as her eyes closed and her head dropped backwards. She forced her eyes open. The green eyes mesmerised her as waves of ecstasy flooded her. She couldn't look away. At some point she realised Franky's free hand was busy getting herself off as she watched the show. They collapsed against each other. Franky held her close and kissed her neck.

"What was that about?" She asked quietly.

"I love you," Erica said, her blue eyes warm as she looked at Franky's reflection.

Franky was suspicious. She couldn't shake the feeling that Erica was deliberately avoiding her question. Her instincts were telling her that Erica's disclosure that day was just the tip of the iceberg. She kissed her shoulder and wondered. Her eyes thoughtful in her reflection.

Erica found it was easier saying those words the second time and she discovered she liked saying them aloud. If Franky wasn't ready to say them, then Erica would be patient. Their respective problems seemed to be over. Ferguson was dead and buried. Bridget was leaving. Time was on her side.

 


	25. Lingering Doubts

“The sex was a mistake," Erica said with a sigh.

"Yep," Franky agreed, in hindsight it had been.

"Are you okay?" Erica asked as she watched Franky inspect her side.

"I will be," she answered, "if we ever get to see the doc." Franky's wound had begun bleeding after their session. They had been waiting at emergency for hours.

"At least we know it's not life threatening," Erica said, resting her head against Franky's shoulder. She stifled a yawn.

"You okay?" Franky asked. It wasn't often that Erica let herself go in public.

"Just tired," Erica mumbled.

"I don’t know what you’ve done to get tired," Franky scoffed with a smile. Sex made Erica sleepy, she knew, or more likely it was the orgasms.

"I didn't get much sleep last night," Erica replied.

"Out dancing with Louisa, were you?" Franky's tone was teasing. "While I'm laid up in hospital," she added, "some girlfriend, you are," she mocked, but her hand slid over Erica's thigh and patted her lightly to counter the words.

"No," Erica refuted but she didn't expand. Instead she sat up. "I'm going to find out what's happening," she said suddenly.

As Franky watched Erica head towards the nurses station, she noticed another pair of eyes also watching the slim figure. A guy in his forties with bored eyes and a teenager, leered at her legs and arse as she passed him. Franky stared at him. He continued to watch Erica as she engaged in conversation with one of the nurses, eyes no longer bored but filled with lascivious intent. He was fucking her in his mind right there at the counter. Wanker.

Erica suddenly turned, quick smile then she beckoned her. Franky kicked the wanker's outstretched foot as she passed. "Sorry mate," she murmured. She resisted the urge to put her hands around Erica's waist as she came up behind her at the counter. She suspected Erica wouldn't like it.

"Come with me," the nurse said to Franky. "The doctor will see you now."

Franky wondered what Erica had said to the nurse to get her bumped up the queue. "Coming?" she said impulsively to Erica.

The doctor was young. "Hello, Francesca Doyle, is it?" She asked, looking at her paperwork.

"Franky," both she and Erica said in unison.

She looked up and smiled. "I'm Dr Rawlins," she introduced herself. "Top off please," she said. "I've not seen this used before," she said with interest as she studied the injury and the glue used to bind it. "I'm going to have to stitch you up with conventional stitches this time, I'm afraid."

"Whatever works," Franky said obligingly. She grinned at Erica. "Wouldn't want it slowing me down."

"You should take it easy," the doctor instructed.

"She will," Erica assured her, "I'll make sure of it." She looked determined. Franky raised her eyebrows in challenge.

There was a commotion in the corridor outside. Voices were raised, an authoritative tone spoke clearly, "you cannot go in there, Sir!"

"I want to see her!"

The doctor did not flinch. Her attention never wavered from the task at hand. Erica though looked away from Franky towards the door, her interest piqued.

"The risk of infection with tuberculosis is extremely high," they heard the nurse explaining.

"You don't understand, my daughter's situation is complicated. She has mental health issues. I want to speak to the doctor who made the diagnosis," the deep male voice demanded. It was a voice used to being obeyed.

"Dr Rawlins is with a patient at the moment, but if you'll come with me," The conversation moved out of earshot.

"TB?" Erica frowned, "I didn't think that still existed in Australia."

"It's rare," Dr Rawlins replied, "usually the patients are indigenous or immigrants. We test on entry but some slip in because it can lie dormant in your system."

"But that wasn't the case here, I take it," Erica probed.

Franky looked at her curiously.

"No," Dr Rawlins acknowledged, her dark intelligent eyes appraising Erica. She was of Indian extraction with long dark hair pulled back and a dark caramel complexion, suggesting mixed race parentage. Her capable hands returned to their task.

Erica caught Franky's eye over the doctor's bent head. "Back in a moment," she mouthed and disappeared out the door.

"How are you feeling?" The doctor asked, "any fevers or sweating?"

"Nah," Franky said dismissively. "When can I swim?"

"Two weeks," the doctor told her, "no sooner," she cautioned.

"Sure," she agreed amicably.

Erica returned five minutes later and leant against the wall near the door. She kept half an eye on the corridor outside. There was something going on with her, Franky could tell.

"All done," the doctor said eventually. "Avoid strenuous activities for awhile." She said in parting.

"Okay, what is it?" Franky asked, taking Erica's hand and pulling her close. "I know you're up to something."

"That was Robert Campbell," Erica stated, "in the corridor before."

Franky watched her as her mind attempted to make the link that Erica had obviously made. "As in Mia's dad?" She clarified suddenly.

"As in the Deputy Premier, yes. Mia has been admitted with suspected TB," Erica told her.

"She didn't look too good when I saw her," Franky admitted, "but I thought she was just detoxing."

"Franky," Erica looked concerned, "Tuberculous is highly contagious. It can be transmitted just by coughing."

"I don't have TB, Erica," Franky said immediately. Erica's concern was touching but unnecessary.

"I hope not," Erica said with sincerity.

In the car Erica switched on the engine then paused. "Did you want me to drop you home?" She asked. Her tone was tentative. She didn't want Franky to go home. "Or you could stay at my place,” she suggested.

Franky thought about her borrowed flat. It wasn't a home. It was a place where she slept. The idea of being there on her own was unappealing. Erica's apartment, for all its faults, at least had Erica in it.

"Your place," she said. "No strenuous activity though," she said in response to Erica's smile, "doc's orders."

In the darkness, under the doona, Franky lay on her good side facing Erica. She couldn't make her out in the darkness but she knew she was there by her soft breathing and the occasional shift of the mattress as she moved position slightly. She thought about all those nights alone in her cell, about when Bea had outplayed her for top dog, and she had crawled injured and full of self-pity into her bed. It had been a low point in a sea of troughs. Some days she still couldn't believe how far she'd come. She had a beautiful sexy woman who loved her lying next to her. She had a job, the beginnings of a career, she had a purpose beyond swagger and survival. She wondered if that was enough, if she could be happy. She felt tears well up without warning and spill, running crookedly across her cheek and nose to her pillow. A small sound escaped her as she struggled to regain control. Don't cry, she willed herself, but it was too late.

"What's wrong?" Erica asked softly.

"Nothing," Franky gulped, wiping the tears away with frustration. She felt Erica's arms slip around her, drawing her closer until Franky's head settled against her.

"It's okay," she heard Erica murmur gently, "it will be okay."

Franky stayed there until she slept, intoxicated by Erica's faint lingering perfume and the warm comfort she was offering.

When she woke it felt late. She could hear the radio from out in the lounge room and guessed Erica was well and truly up. Her sleep had been disturbed but the sadness she had felt the night before had dissipated. The morning felt fresh and her mood positive. Everything would be okay, Erica was right.

She showered and found some clean clothes, ones she had left previously that Erica had washed and folded. She was grateful because her clothes from yesterday were blood stained. She appeared before Erica with damp hair and bare feet but dressed in shorts and a sleeveless top. "Hello," she said and watched Erica look up from a report she was reading. She was dressed for work.

"Hello," Erica stood up, "how are you today?" There was concern in her tone.

"Good," Franky smiled at her, "Yeah, I'm good," she affirmed.

Erica relaxed. "Good," she smiled in return.

"You going somewhere?" Franky asked. She found the coffee plunger and began filling it with coffee.

"Yes," Erica confirmed, "Louisa and I are going through my draft funding application. There are a few gaps I need her to fill." She watched Franky fill the kettle and put it on. "What will you do?" She asked.

Franky wandered over to Erica. "Dunno," she said as she kissed her. "Go to the flat then into work at some point," then she laughed, "get my arse kicked by Laura for trashing her car."

"She won't do that, she'll be too thankful you're alive," Erica told her.

"Yeah, right," Franky didn't sound convinced.

"And curious," she added, "what will you tell her?"

Franky shrugged. "That I was car jacked," she offered with a grin.

"Mugged might be more convincing," Erica suggested drily.

"Or attacked by church going no voters who took offence at my tatt," Franky said with an expression of exaggerated shock.

Erica laughed. "Sadly believable," she told her. Nothing showed how little Australia had evolved since white settlement than a survey on equal rights. "I was thinking," she said as she wrapped her arms around Franky holding her in a relaxed embrace. "Let's go away somewhere this weekend. You need a bit of R and R." The doorbell rang but Erica's eyes remained on Franky. She wasn't entirely sure how her suggestion would be received.

Franky was amenable though. "Road trip, why not?" She said with a grin. Erica kissed her, feeling pleased and a little excited at the prospect. Franky pulled her closer, careful to protect her side. The kiss distracted them both and it was only another sharp ring on the doorbell which broke them apart.

Louisa greeted Erica but her eyes slid past her when she noticed Franky in the kitchen making coffee. "Want one?" Franky asked casually when she noticed her observation.

"Just had one," Louisa said immediately, raising her eyebrows as she passed Erica. She came into the apartment and dropped her bag on the island bench.

Franky's presence must seem strange to Louisa after Erica's confession at her house and her obvious distress over the relationship. Erica closed the door and followed her, hoping Louisa wouldn't ask any difficult questions. That was the problem with confessions, she acknowledged, you couldn't control what the other party did with the information.

Louisa's question was, however, quite predictable and mundane when she asked it. "How are you?" She sounded curious as she looked for signs of damage.

"Fighting fit," Franky told her.

"Really?" Louisa sounded sceptical. "Erica said you were in a bad way." She recalled the rushed phone call of two nights ago when Erica had needed to download and had chosen Louisa as her confidant.

"Medical miracle I am," Franky claimed with a self-deprecating laugh. "They glued me back together."

Louisa wasn't sure if she was joking or not. "Humpty Dumpty wasn't so lucky," she murmured.

"Yeah, well I didn't fall off a wall," Franky said lightly.

"Or get stabbed in the eye, fortunately," Louisa added.

"That had nothin' to do with me," Franky said defensively.

Erica cleared her throat. "I thought we were meeting at your office." She said in an effort to change topic.

"I need you to come with me to meet the co-funders," Louisa told her. The government would only commit to 50 percent of the funding for the new building. Louisa was relying on two philanthropic organisations for the rest. "I need you to reassure them the government is on board. Are you ready to go?" She asked, "only we're late already," she added apolegically.

Erica nodded. "Take it easy today," she said to Franky with a smile. "Will you come back here later?"

Franky heard Erica’s hopeful tone. "Sure," she agreed. She didn't fancy returning to her flat just yet anyway.

"Good," she caressed Franky's cheek, "I have a surprise for you," she murmured as she leant in and kissed her.

Once Erica and Louisa had left. Franky poured herself a coffee and checked her phone. The radio murmured in the background. She noticed a voicemail message. When she dialled in she heard Liz asking her to visit. Franky hadn't seen her since her parole. Her voice with its down to earth but slightly anxious tone brought a wave of nostalgia crashing over Franky. She missed Liz, and her wisdom and comradery. She would visit she decided.

As she drank her coffee she thought about Louisa's comment. She wondered how Louisa even knew how Ferguson had died. Had Erica told her? Had Bridget? The knife in the eye bothered Bridget, Franky knew, and that bothered Franky. She pressed her memory for details of that night. The only details she could recall had scruffy edges that made them hard to recognise. It was frustrating. She sighed. She could remember Bridget at the hospital, smiling and laughing, but little else.

Now Mia was in hospital with suspected tuberculosis. Franky wondered why she hadn't realised. Her racking cough was a dead give away in hindsight. No wonder she had collapsed at the train station. Now her family had tracked her down and she would go home. Franky couldn't help assuming that deep down Mia would be glad they had found her. It was what Franky had wished for every day for all those years she'd spent in foster homes. Robert Campbell had sounded concerned, very concerned, she remembered. His words as well as his tone came back to her. Then something struck her.

On impulse she sent Bridget a text. "Can we meet up?"

She waited, sipping her coffee, staring at the screen, thinking about Mia. Sarah Carson had said something about her therapist and now Robert Campbell had mentioned mental illness in relation to Mia. It was an odd coincidence. She stared absently at the screen. No response from Bridget. She put down the phone and walked away only to return a moment later to check if she had taken it off silent.

She fell asleep on the couch waiting.

She dreamt. In her dream Erica surprised her by purchasing a house in the suburbs and falling pregnant with twins. The paternity was never fully explained in the dream. Then Joan Ferguson intruded into her dream. Pushing her way in, staring curiously into the babies' cot. For some reason the cot was perched ridiculously and precariously on the roof. Franky rushed at Ferguson, pushing her violently away. When Ferguson fell towards the ground she woke with a start.

Her side hurt. Her head hurt. She got up and found painkillers, popping them quickly with a tall glass of water. She had wasted the day sleeping. She hadn't gone into work, hadn't visited Liz and now it was past 4pm. She ignored the voice in her head that told her she probably needed the rest.

She found her phone and noticed she had a message. It was from Bridget. When she opened it, she found the message held an invitation. "Come over after 5."

At Bridget's house Franky noticed the roses had come into bloom. It was a beautiful time in Melbourne. Gardens exploded with colour and perfumed scents greeted you as you passed the stunning displays. She breathed in with appreciation, a five year breath that couldn't be fully appreciated by anyone but those who had been incarcerated. A lady with a stroller and a child passed her with a smile. The little boy was carrying an enormous panda bear. Franky smiled at him. She thought about the dream she’d had as she rang Bridget's doorbell. She wondered what it might be like to be a parent and have a little life relying on her

"Hi," Bridget greeted her as she opened the door. She appeared to be only just home herself, still wearing her jacket and skirt. Her heels rapped on the floorboards as she led Franky to the kitchen. Jasper looked up from his position on the rug and thumped his tail in welcome. Franky fondled his ears then gave Bridget an enquiring look. "Richard is away so I'm dog-sitting," she explained. She pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge and reached up grabbing two glasses before hesitating. "Can you drink?" She asked uncertainly. Franky just nodded. “I’m glad you texted,” Bridget said with a smile as she handed her a wine, "I was hoping we could talk."

Franky remembered Bridget saying as much at the hospital. It came back to her suddenly with complete clarity.

"Has anything come back to you about that night?" Bridget handed her a wine and was watching her expectantly.

"Just you," Franky told her, "you at the hospital," she shook her head slightly. "Nothing else," she said with frustration.

Bridget stopped herself from reading anything into those words. It would be too hopeful and heartbreaking to think they reflected Franky’s desires. "Don't worry," she reassured her, "Mia's account puts you in the clear." She smiled. "If Ferguson is found then she can come forward." She fiddled with her wine glass.

"Yeah," Franky agreed absently as she sipped her wine, watching Bridget. She wondered about Bridget’s choice of words, the same words Erica had used. “Mia has TB," she added after a moment.

"Tuberculosis?" Bridget sounded concerned. She remembered Mia coughing in her car. She had sounded terrible.

"Admitted last night to St Vincent's," Franky told her. "I think she and Sarah had the same therapist," she went on immediately, "I think that's how they met."

"Who?" Bridget asked. She couldn't help wondering if she might know them in a professional capacity.

Franky shrugged. "Dunno," she put her wine down. "Could you find out?"

"To what end?" Bridget asked with a frown.

Again Franky shrugged. "Might be interesting," was all she said.

Bridget studied her for a moment. "Franky, Ferguson is dead," she reminded her gently, "there's nothing to be gained by pursuing this."

Franky considered her words. “Ferguson is missing,” she told Bridget, then repeated what Mia had told her. “What if she isn’t dead, like everyone’s assuming?”

Bridget looked concerned. “Let’s cross that bridge if and when we get to it,” she suggested calmly.

Franky frowned. “What if that therapist holds the key to everything?” She wasn’t prepared to drop it. “It’s easy for you to say wait and see, Gidge, you’re not the one who will be the first suspect in a murder investigation.” It was a fair point and Franky was clearly agitated by the thought of it. “And Mia is fucking unreliable,” she muttered. She didn’t bother to add that TB kills people. She looked Bridget in the eye. “I know what you’re thinking,” she continued, “that I had something to do with it, that I took the opportunity to get rid of her once and for all. That’s what you think, right?” Franky asked. “I told you I wished I’d killed Ferguson and now you think I did.”

Bridget looked upset. “Please don’t think that,” she said quietly, “I am so relieved you are alive and Ferguson is dead.”

“What do you think happened then?” Franky asked, deliberately testing Bridget’s claim.

“I don’t know,” Bridget admitted, “but I believe you if you say it wasn’t you.”

“Even if I don’t remember what the fuck happened?” She sounded so frustrated. “It had to be Mia,” she insisted, “that story has to be bullshit. If it wasn’t her then, shit, maybe it was me...”

Bridget could see she was tying herself in knots. She put a reassuring hand on Franky’s arm. She felt her warm, smooth skin and couldn’t resist running her hand downwards in a caress before taking her fingers and squeezing them gently. She willed herself to stop there even as she imagined raising that hand to cup Franky’s cheek to comfort her. Once she had crossed that boundary it would be impossible not to go further. She would run her thumb across Franky’s bottom lip. She would lean forward, incapable of stopping herself, she would breathe in Franky’s faint coconut scent. She would drown in delicious memories before she…

“Gidge?” Franky had said something and Bridget had missed it. Her mind had been so wrapped up in her fantasy, she hadn’t even heard it. “Are you still having those dreams about Ferguson?” Franky asked. The concern in her voice made Bridget’s heart tighten.

“Not so much,” Bridget told her. She felt Franky squeeze her fingers. “I think now Ferguson’s dead, they won’t bother me.” She saw Franky’s eyes darken and could guess her thoughts. “She is dead, Franky,” she said with certainty.

“Yeah,” Franky sounded unconvinced.

Bridget made a decision. “I’ll look into the therapist,” she agreed, “if you think it might help.”

Franky smiled then changed the subject. She was tired of talking about Ferguson. “You wanted to talk,” she prompted. Her eyes held a question.

Bridget still held Franky’s hand, not wanting to break physical contact with her. "I need to tell you something," she began. Franky was watching her, green eyes serious, concentrating. "I've resigned," she said, "effective from the end of the month."

Franky felt an unaccountable loss at her words. She had liked the idea that they were both, in their own ways, helping those women. Bridget through her work as a counsellor and Franky by building a defence strategy for her clients. It bound them together, this shared goal. She stalled, giving her emotions time to sort themselves out. "Why?"

Because I miss you, because I want you back but I know that's impossible and my heart can't heal while I see reminders of you everyday, down every corridor I walk and every room I enter. So I'm leaving to have some hope of saving myself, knowing that it will sever my last connection to you and leave me adrift on an empty, black sea of loneliness.

Franky was waiting for her to speak, to explain, and Bridget could have said then what was in her heart. But she didn't.

"I’m being suspended,” she said instead. Factually correct.

"What?" Franky stared at her, disbelieving. She had forgotten about the review board and its investigation with all the drama with Ferguson. "Fuck! I knew it!" She said at last. "You should have let me talk to them," she chastised her. "You have to fight it!"

"It won't make any difference," Bridget said with a sigh.

Franky was silent. She stared at their fingers, still interlocked. "I'm sorry," she said eventually. She looked at Bridget. "You shouldn't get the blame for this, us," she corrected herself.

"No," Bridget smiled sadly, "no one should," she sighed.

"What will you do?" Franky asked eventually. She knew Bridget saw private patients outside of her work at the prison but presumably that work would also cease with the suspension.

"I don't know," Bridget admitted. She was glad Franky seemed to have accepted the news. "A clean start I think. I met someone at that conference on the Gold Coast who is doing some research into mental illness in the prison system," Bridget saw Franky frown. "It could be interesting," she finished with false brightness.

Franky stared at her, a look of dismissive disbelief on her face. “Research,” she repeated dully. "It’s a fucking waste,” she said with some force. “You should be working with prisoners.”

Bridget didn’t disagree. “It’s only for a year,” she said instead, “At least they didn’t deregister me.” She smiled then took up her glass. “Can you stay for dinner?” She asked hopefully.

Franky wanted to stay. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this would be the last time she would see Bridget. She remembered she had promised Erica. Still they hadn’t mentioned any dinner plans, had they? She could always go over later. “Yeah,” Franky smiled as she pulled out her phone. “I’ll just send a text.” She said with her head down.

Bridget turned away. “I’ve got some smoked trout,” she said, going to the fridge.

It was Bridget who showed Franky how to fillet the fish. Franky watched with interest, pouring them both more wine. She suggested a Waldorf salad as the accompaniment eyeing the apples in the fruit bowl and finding walnuts in Bridget’s cupboard. She wanted to make the mayonnaise from scratch. “You don’t know what’s in that commercial crap, Gidge,” she told her, giving her a hip nudge as she took over the bench space. Bridget just laughed, gave way graciously and drank more wine. It felt right having Franky dictating procedures in her kitchen while she watched. It all felt right to her. She put her chin in her hand, perched on a stool across from Franky, twirled her wine glass and was content just enjoy the moment.

She let her eyes linger on the younger woman. Franky looked well, rested. Except for her tendency to favour her left side, Bridget wouldn’t have known she had been in hospital. In fact Franky looked as good as she always did to Bridget. It didn’t matter if Franky was frowning at the world or embracing it with her impish, charismatic humour and swagger, the girl could pull on Bridget’s heartstrings. It made her want to kiss her and protect her at the same time. She took too many risks but Bridget knew Franky didn’t know how to play it safe, it wasn’t in her make-up.

Franky looked up from the food processor briefly and caught her staring. She drank more wine and felt a warm flush on her cheeks. Franky smiled at her and Bridget found it impossible to look away.

“I think it’s ready,” Franky told her, breaking eye contact to dip her finger into the bowl. “Yeah that’s good,” she said with satisfaction. “Try this,” she encouraged Bridget.

Franky offered Bridget her finger coated in mayonnaise. Bridget only hesitated a moment before accepting that slim finger into her mouth, letting her tongue twirl around it, and her lips caress it as she sampled Franky’s offering. It was good, its thick creamy tartness tasted rich and complex and nothing like shop bought mayonnaise. Bridget murmured appreciatively.

They ate on the couch, plates in their laps. They finished the wine and Bridget asked Franky about her university studies. She deliberately kept the conversation light and away from Ferguson.

Franky began feeling woozy after her second wine. She wondered if a third wine was such a good idea as Bridget leant forward to pour it. She had trouble focussing on Bridget’s words. She had a vague question in her head about the antibiotics she was on.

“Gidget,” she slurred, her eyes blurring until there were two of Bridget. She didn’t feel good. She was glad she was sitting down. She closed her eyes.

Erica glanced at her phone. It was late. Franky would be wondering where she was. “I’ve got to go,” she said apologetically.

Louisa eyed her over her wine glass. “Not so fast E,” she said with a firmness that was attractive. “You’re different today.” There was no question mark at the end of that statement. Erica’s eyes flickered. “Something’s happened,” she said knowingly.

“You’re wrong,” Erica said lightly.

“I’m not,” Louisa said surely, sipping her wine. Then she smiled until Erica looked away. “You and Franky worked things out then?” She said after a moment.

Erica was happy to change the subject. “For now,” she agreed but she wondered how far forward she and Franky had actually moved. She was still no closer to understanding Franky’s feelings. There was attraction and desire and passion. What was between them was intensely physical. It was tumultuous. Her emotions swung wildly depending on Franky’s response to her. It terrified her at times just how much it affected her, how everything seemed to have sharper edges and bolder colours now she was with Franky. She thought about Keats and Van Gogh and wondered if they had felt the same because it was a kind of a madness what she felt, what she and Franky had. She would risk anything and everything and hang the consequences. And hadn’t she done exactly that?

“Erica?”

Louisa had been talking all the while she realised suddenly. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Louisa was smiling. “Go,” she said indulgently. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said with a wink.

Erica stood up with relief. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be with Franky. “I like it by the way, your something different,” Louisa said as she hugged her in farewell. “It’s sexy.”

Louisa had strolled off towards the bar before Erica had gathered her wits sufficiently to respond.

Franky woke up disoriented and in the dark. She was in bed. It took her a moment to realise she was in Bridget’s bed. She sat up suddenly. Bridget who was asleep next to her, stirred but didn’t wake. Her head was spinning from sitting up so fast. She sank back down onto the pillow and closed her eyes. She lay there waiting for the dizziness to pass. She felt her breathing slow to something deep and rhythmic. It calmed her.

She had always slept well beside Bridget. The nightmares hadn't plagued her so much. After years of sleeping in a cell she thought the adjustment might have been difficult but it wasn't. Bridget's presence was calming and comforting.

She reached out until she could feel her physical presence and relaxed. Bridget responded to Franky's touch, rolling towards her and settling against Franky's side as she had hundreds of times before. Franky pushed away the thought that told her to move, break contact, to feel guilty for lying there.

Then she heard something. Her heart thudded against her chest and she realised how tightly coiled she was since her encounter with Ferguson. She felt a wet nose nudge her arm. It was the dog. She felt the tension leave her as she laughed to herself. “Hello Jasp,” she whispered, feeling for and patting his head. “You can’t come up tonight, your side of the bed is taken.” Despite Bridget’s resistance, Franky had let the dog sleep with her after Sarah’s break in. She found she had slept better as a consequence. Once Bridget had returned from the Gold Coast, Richard had reclaimed Jasper and Franky hadn’t mentioned it.

Franky heard the dog sigh and felt a wet tongue lick her wrist. “All right,” she gave in, and wriggled backwards until she was sandwiched against the sleeping Bridget and a large, happy canine. “You win,” she muttered as she patted his side. It was a concession to the dog but also resolved any internal angst she felt about staying exactly where she was.

As she was on the edge of sleep, a memory came looming out of the mist in her mind. Her falling consciousness fought to hold on waiting for it to crystallise. She glimpsed it briefly and with complete clarity in the moment before sleep claimed her.

She knew who killed Ferguson.

 

 

 

 


	26. Once a killer

Bridget woke with her cheek pressed against Franky’s shoulder blade. She turned her head slightly to kiss the spot on her shoulder where Franky’s sleeveless top stopped and her smooth bare skin began. It was an unconscious act. For a brief moment she forgot that this wasn’t just another morning when she and Franky would dally in bed, laughing and making love, delaying the inevitable invasion of their respective responsibilities.

Then she froze as reality seeped in and she remembered that Franky had all but passed out on her lounge. Slowly she moved away from the slim form, carefully so as not to wake her. Suddenly it felt awkward. She didn’t want Franky to know she had curled up next to her as she kept her vigil, had fallen asleep watching her.

She froze again as her companion stirred and rolled on to her back. She watched her, holding her breath as a tattooed arm slid over her hip and rested there, warm and real. “You know, if you wanted to get me into bed, you didn’t have to drug me,” murmured a sleepy, teasing voice.

There were no eyes to accompany the accusation and Bridget wondered if Franky was talking in her sleep. “I didn’t,” she whispered, sounding slightly indignant. “You drugged yourself,” she muttered under her breath. No response except the hand on her hip slipped to her thigh. Bridget waited but Franky didn’t stir. “I’m glad you’re here though,” she couldn’t help adding.

Franky’s insistence she’d be okay after a lie down won out over Bridget’s own belief that Emergency was a better place for her. So she helped her to the bedroom and kept an eye on her, hoping Franky knew her own body sufficiently well to have made the right call. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She could have watched Franky forever but the physical demands of her day had played against her. Now she quietly resumed her study.

As she shifted from sleep to wakefulness, Franky didn’t remember that she had captured the elusive memory she’d been pushing her mind to find. She existed in that blissful state of ignorance where the world was happy and hopeful.

Then she remembered what her subconscious had dragged out of the shadows and into the light as she had drifted towards sleep.

Ferguson looming over her. The knife in her hand. Those cold eyes. The menace. One last desperate scrambling attempt to save herself. Did she aim deliberately into that eye, urged on by retribution and righteousness? She couldn’t say and it didn’t matter. No court would care, no jury would see it for that. She had done murder, truly this time, there was no escaping it, no excusing it like with Meg Jackson. There was blood on both her hands now and no amount of washing would remove it. She would end up back there, back inside where her caged soul would shrivel and die a little more each day. A wave of nausea hit her.

Breathe, she willed herself, just breathe. Think, she told herself when the panic had receded somewhat, just think. _Run_. The thought spread like a cancer through her mind. _Get away_. She knew the system. She had lived it. Once she was in it she was doomed. Her only chance was to run. Leave behind everything, everyone that meant something to her. _Disappear_. She pushed away the sorrow that suddenly threatened to overwhelm her, weighted, heart-crushing sorrow. There was something worse than having nothing and no one, she knew all too well, and that was having it and losing it.

She opened her eyes and looked towards Bridget’s tousled blonde hair. Then she noticed the blue eyes watching her intently, warm regard and something else in their depths.

She wished those eyes would always look at her like that, without disappointment. She wished she could have lived up to Bridget’s expectations.

“I’m sorry I ruined things,” she said to those eyes. Instead of darkening in response, they creased and brightened.

“Ruined how? We had a nice dinner, we talked, you passed out and insisted I put you to bed, which I did. You’ve done the same for me,” Bridget pointed out with a smile. She was glad Franky seemed to have recovered.

Franky gave a half-hearted smile in return. She hadn’t meant that but Bridget wasn’t to know.

“And you’re a traitor,” the eyes had shifted to something beyond Franky. She felt a weight rest on her stomach and glanced down to see Jasper was looking at Bridget with an expression of injured innocence.

“I’m irresistible Gidge,” Franky’s smile was genuine this time.

“Ha, you wish!” was the lightening response. Bridget was laughing and Franky was glad. She would remember her like this, relaxed and carefree, her eyes humorous. She etched the memory onto her heart.

Franky’s smile faded. “I wish,” she muttered, her voice full of regret and Bridget’s expression became serious. She waited but Franky didn’t say what she wished for. There was sadness in her green eyes.

“Franky?” She prompted softly. She sensed the shift in mood and couldn’t help but hope. Her feelings for Franky surged within her. Her resolution was helpless against the wild current of emotions overwhelming her. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she had found this beautiful, amazing, complicated woman and had lost her. “Do you know what I wish?” She whispered, reaching out to touch Franky. “I wish that -“

“Don’t!” Franky pleaded in a low voice. She couldn’t bear to hear Bridget put into words what might have been. “It’s too late.” She whispered. There wasn’t any point to this. It would just hurt them both.

Franky’s words, so final, so hopeless, were choked with tears.  “It’s not,” Bridget went on bravely, despite the rejection. “Franky,” she pleaded. She had always thought she had been the one in control in their relationship but she realised suddenly that at some point she had lost that. It was Franky who was calling the shots now.

Franky wouldn’t look at her. She sat up and inspected her side, pulling at the bandage and checking for any new bleeding. The stitches were holding strong though, she looked up satisfied, and saw Bridget staring at the wound. She stuck down the tape and pulled down her top. She got up, disturbing the dog, who looked at her expectantly. She pulled on her jeans and began looking for her boots. She felt Bridget watching her from the bed.

Bridget must have undressed her the previous evening, but only down to her underwear, clearly deciding to preserve appearances. Franky wasn’t sure why given Bridget had seen everything there was to see plenty of times.

“You’re just going to leave then?” Bridget asked at last. Franky heard the pain and disappointment in her voice.

Franky hated herself for what she was about to do but she couldn’t have Bridget being suspicious and asking questions. She couldn’t have her trying to track her. It would be better that Bridget hated her than followed her. And if Franky knew anything about the psychologist, she knew Bridget would try and find her. She had a habit of turning up, of being there even when Franky hadn’t expected it.

“Yep,” she felt sick as she said it. “You are, aren’t you?” Bridget sat up at Franky’s accusing tone. “I mean this research job isn’t in Melbourne, is it?” Bridget realised that Franky had worked out what she hadn’t mentioned, or Erica Davidson had told her. “You’re fucking off so why shouldn’t I?” She sounded more bitter than she intended. “So much for all your promises Gidge,” she added with a cynical laugh.

“Franky, that’s unfair.” Bridget replied in low voice. Franky knew the signs by now. Bridget’s voice always dropped when she was getting emotional.

Franky folded her arms across her chest and faced Bridget. “You said you wouldn't do this," she pointed out. “You promised me." There was hurt in her voice.

The words hit hard at Bridget's heart. "You can't hold me to that," she said quietly. "You know you can't." She was resolute. It was unfair of Franky to do this. "You have Erica now.”

Franky ignored that. "Were you even gonna tell me?" She asked, reclaiming the offensive. This time Bridget was slow to respond. "I guess not," she said eventually. She felt her emotions skidding out of control. She didn’t want to have this conversation anymore. She was being unreasonable. Bridget would end up hating her. The look on her face told her that. It became tense and Franky could see her jaw clench.

"You can't expect me to consult you about my life anymore," Bridget pointed out, feeling suddenly annoyed that Franky might expect that. "We're not together, you're with Erica." It hurt each time she said it. "You chose this.”

Franky stared at her. She saw the hurt on Bridget’s face and heard the truth in her words.

“If there was any hope for us, Franky,” Bridget hesitated. If Franky gave her the slightest indication they had a chance of reconciliation, she would stay, she resolved in that instance.

“Well there isn’t.”

It was said so emphatically it stopped Bridget in her tracks. Her eyes dimmed and her head dropped wearily. “Then there isn’t any point me staying,” she said at last.

The silence lengthened. Franky clenched her jaw and fought the urge to give in, pull back from her intended course, take back her words and make things right between them.

“Fine," she said coldly. "Fuck off then," and she walked out.

Anger got her down the hallway and out the front door. It kept her walking, fuelling her purposeful strides and channeling her thoughts. Anger helped her like an old friend. It was comforting to return to that familiar emotion, let it support her when everyone and everything else had failed. Except anger could no longer sustain Franky. Tears began to fall and once they started Franky couldn’t stop them. Even though she had wanted to push Bridget irrevocably away, now it was done she regretted each and every word of their exchange. It had been so much easier to contemplate as a concept in her head than the reality of it.

Bridget was staring at the empty doorway as her emotions battled for dominance. She was angry at Franky’s reaction to her leaving even as she understood it. It stirred in her the guilt she felt over leaving her. She had promised and even now she felt the pull of that promise. She knew the anger was just a thin layer of protection. Underneath there was a gut wrenching misery, a broken heart, shattered by the realisation that Franky wasn’t open to rekindling their relationship. The speed with which she had shut down the conversation and killed any small hope that lingered between them hurt so much that Bridget couldn’t breathe. She put her head in her hands. It was too cruel. The harmony of the previous evening, when everything had felt right between them, the glimpse of a possible future had lulled her in a false sense of hope. She had begun to believe and it hurt so much. She hugged herself as she felt tears cascade down her cheeks. She couldn’t do this again. It had taken so much and so long to get over losing Riley. She had done it but it had cost her so much. When she had met Franky she knew it had been worth every painful step of her recovery. Their bond had proved that to her.

She felt a wet nose in her face then Jasper’s wet tongue licked her cheek. She hugged him to her, crying into his soft coat.

The reason Franky Doyle was a survivor was her ability to make the most of any situation and keep on fighting, despite odds, despite circumstance. Now she didn’t dwell on the crappy cards she had been dealt but how best to play them to keep her in the game. She wiped a hand across her face dismissing her tears and steeled herself. She turned her mind away from Bridget and focussed on her plan to disappear.

Erica had woken up alone. Franky hadn’t turned up the night before, which was probably a good thing as she had been very late getting home. She missed her though. The feel of Franky taking up some of the space in her large bed. She missed her presence, her humour, her touch, which did things to her that had made her realise just how two dimensional her erotic dreams had been. Just thinking about her made Erica’s body yearn for more. She stretched and pressed her face into her pillow lost for a moment in a Franky fantasy. She didn’t care that nothing else had managed to fully occupy her thoughts since Franky Doyle had reappeared in her life. She knew her carefully crafted life was slipping. Her career path was splintered. She was ambitious and yet, she had lost her purpose and drive. Franky had brought to the surface all her doubts about politics and whether she was ruthless enough to survive it. There was Louisa, and maybe because Franky had suggested her as a logical alternative, Erica had seriously considered that option. She hadn’t committed though, she was just testing the waters, trying it on for size, seeing if it fitted her. She had absented herself from friends and family and didn’t care that her life revolved around one woman. One woman who was bold and brazen and broke every expectation society had of her, the one woman who took her breath away.

Erica found her phone on the bedside table and sent Franky a text.

Erica: I missed you last night  
She closed her eyes again as she waited for a response. It didn’t take long before she heard a soft ping.  
Franky: sorry long story  
Then almost immediately another message appeared.  
Franky: had an idea...interested?  
Erica: Curious...  
There was a pause.  
Franky: Busy today?  
Erica: always busy...tempt me  
She could imagine Franky’s smile. She waited.  
Franky: ditch L and we start our w/end early  
She felt herself smiling.  
Erica: voting yes  
Franky: you’re so easy  
Erica laughed. God, she was.  
Franky: I’ll meet you at yours in a bit

Erica got up, suddenly energised. She should ring Louisa. Instead she showered and packed a bag. They hadn’t talked about where they would go but as the weather was good she packed a bikini, sunscreen and a sun hat. Erica wanted sun, sea, sand and surf. She packed another bag in case.

She was quite happy to blow off Louisa. Her parting comment last night had bothered Erica. It was as though Louisa knew something. Erica sipped her coffee and stared at her phone. She couldn’t know, could she?

When Bridget had called her the night of Franky’s tangle with Ferguson, it had been with a crazy idea. Bridget Westfall knew Ferguson turning up dead would look bad for Franky especially if her prints were found on the murder weapon. Her idea was to get to the house where Ferguson’s body lay before the police and move the body. She needed Erica’s help because she couldn’t physically do it on her own.

“It’s a ridiculous idea,” Erica had told her immediately. “Where are we going to take it?”

Bridget had suggested some places.

“We’ll be seen,” Erica had told her.

Then she had suggested burying her under concrete in the cellar under the stairs. “With what?” Erica had asked. “I’m not a DYI girl but I’m pretty sure you need a hell of a lot of concrete to bury a body as big as Ferguson.”

There had been silence on the other end of the phone. “I can’t sit by and not do anything. Surely you can see where this will end up.”

“Go and get the murder weapon, surely that will be enough to cast doubt on what happened,” Erica had suggested at last.

“Her prints will be all over the house. It will only take one print with her history and her connection with Ferguson.”

Erica knew how it would play out, even better than the psychologist. “There’s a way,” she said at last. She took a breath. “I know someone who might be able to help, for a price.”

Now she thought back to that night and her return visit to the Velvet Curtain.

_Erica walked down the steps into the dim interior. It hadn’t changed since her first time, only she had changed. She wasn’t dressed for an evening out at an S &M club because her purpose for being there was very different. She wasn’t dressed inappropriately however, and the hem of her dress caressed her thighs as she moved. Although it was almost 3am, the club buzzed with action. Erica’s eyes were drawn to the cages where beautiful bodies entwined in erotic acts designed to entice and entrance customers. Her eyes were captured by the sight of a woman wielding a black leather whip. As she stared, the woman’s eyes met hers and her breath caught at the knowing look in their depths._

_She started when a low voice at her side asked, “Do you see anything you like?”_

_“I’m looking for someone,” Erica said, looking away reluctantly._

_“Of course,” the woman smiled. “Perhaps I can help,” she waved her arm towards the show as though it was a tasting plate. Erica was silent, her eyes drinking in all the taboos on offer. “The Velvet Curtain can indulge any fantasy,” she tempted her._

_Erica remembered why she was here. It wasn’t for herself. It was for Franky. “I wanted to speak to Tom O’Connor. Is he here?”_

_“I can enquire,” the woman said, “this way.” She led Erica to a semi-circular booth near the bar and indicated she should wait. Erica slid onto the smooth leather and crossed her legs, leaning forward as she ran her hand down her smooth shin. Her eyes studied the cages and as she followed the dark head of a woman she realised she was looking for the enigmatic woman she had been struck by on her first visit. There had been something so powerful in her look and Erica had been drawn. If she hadn’t seen Tom hovering, watching her obvious reaction, knowing perfectly well Erica was curious and captivated by what she saw, she wouldn’t have resisted the pull inside her. His presence had saved her from herself that day and she had been thankful._

_She had told him they needed to meet again. It wasn’t necessary, she had said it on impulse, an excuse to come back and see again a world that seemed a guilty pleasure to her conservative, catholic upbringing. In the end she hadn’t gone back and instead had emailed the details he needed and her invoice, caught in a new confused state. She had stayed in that state, half denial, half confusion until Franky had shocked her out of it with that kiss._

_“Erica,” his thick accent hadn’t softened in the intervening years. Tom O’Conner smiled in greeting, seemingly unsurprised by her appearance. “May I?” He sat down without waiting for her response. He signalled the waitress and ordered them both scotch. There was something appealing about the way Tom O’Connor seemed to know exactly what she needed._

_“You remember me?” Erica said doubtfully._

_“You surprised me. I don’t forget that,” he told her. She cleared her throat feeling suddenly nervous at what she was going to ask. “I was sorry you never came back,” he admitted. “That also surprised me. I thought I must have misread you.” He paused as though waiting for confirmation._

_Erica refused to confirm or deny it. Instead she took control of the conversation._

_“Tom,” she began, covering her nervousness with a layer of poise. She leaned towards him as though they were about to share an intimate moment._

_He also leant in. “Erica,” he said, matching her tone and timbre._

_“I need to get rid of a body,” she breathed into his ear._

_When he didn’t respond she pulled away to read his expression. She frowned, he laughed._

_He also sat back as the scotch arrived. “Now you have my attention,” he acknowledged._

_“Can you help me?” Her nervousness made her seem desperate to her own ears._

_“Erica, slow down,” he smiled at her. “Have a drink.” He picked up his scotch and held it towards her. “To old acquaintances,” he saluted her._

_She picked up her glass and took a hefty gulp. It burned in a pleasant, screw your courage to the sticking point kind of way. “Tom,” she said determinedly as she set down her glass. She really needed this but she wasn’t prepared to be strung along._

_“Relax Erica,” he told her, still amused by her request. “You’re an attractive woman, there’s no need for an act of desperation.”_

_Erica wasn’t so sure. She felt Tom might take her more seriously if she was waving about a knife threatening the clientele. Then again given she was in a S &M club, perhaps not._

_“You left your father’s firm,” Tom was saying. Erica nodded and drank more scotch. “It’s a pity. The idiot your father sent to replace you had an echidna up his arse.”_

_She laughed unexpectedly. Erica guessed he meant Robbie Gallagher. Her father’s substitute son. The man who had replaced Erica not only at the firm but in her father’s affections. It was a good description of him. He always struck her as someone who was slightly irritated by life. “I bet Robbie never met you here,” she guessed drily._

_Tom acknowledged the truth in her words. “Oh I do like you, Erica.” He contemplated her over his drink. “Women’s prisons. I think that was a little more the real Erica.”_

_She shifted in her seat. This was becoming uncomfortable. “I wanted to help people.”_

_“Perhaps,” he smiled. “And politics,” he added, there was a pause, “a natural step for someone ambitious I suppose.”_

_“How do you know all this?” Erica asked. She had the beginnings of a bad feeling. She was playing in a world that she thought she could handle given her previous experience with prisoners and politics. Maybe she had made a mistake. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to handle Tom O’Connor as well as she did other men._

_“We live in the age of social media, Erica, everyone has a profile.”_

_It was true. She asked the better question. “But why?”_

_“I thought you might be useful to me one day,” he smiled. “There was something about you, Erica, even back then. You don’t walk the straight and narrow path that your clothes and accent might suggest.”_

_Erica realised her appearance that night and her unusual request had proved to Tom O’Connor everything he had suspected about her. She drank more scotch and used the moments it gave her to decide on strategy. What was she willing to do? How far was she willing to go? She had been willing to pay, a lot, but maybe money wouldn’t be enough to seal the deal. She knew her answer immediately. Franky was worth anything she had to do. All her angst was replaced with a calm certainty. However this played out tonight, she would get what she needed to keep Franky safe._

_“It was nice to see you again, Tom,” she said, finishing her scotch in an ambitious mouthful. She breathed through the burn. She stood up. “And you’re right, I could have been useful.”_

_He laughed with obvious enjoyment at their game. “Sit down Erica,” he directed her. “We can both get what we want.” Erica sat but she wasn’t entirely sure what he said was true._

Her phone rang. Franky. “I’m almost there, you ready?” She asked. She sounded full of purpose.

“Nearly,” Erica said guiltily. “I just need to ring Louisa.”

“I’ll get us coffees,” Franky offered. She rang off.

Louisa didn’t pick up so Erica left a voicemail explaining her absence and putting off their meeting. She felt slightly relieved she didn’t have to speak to Louisa.

Ten minutes later Franky watched Erica push her bag into the full to capacity boot of the Audi. “You sure you brought everything?” She asked.

Erica heard the teasing tone. “I didn’t know where we were going,” she defended her overpacking.

“How many pairs of shoes you got in there?” Franky asked.

“Be prepared.” Erica took the coffee on offer.

“Girl Scout, were you?” Franky asked, hiding her smile behind her coffee cup.

Erica ignored the comment. “Coming?” She asked as she opened the driver’s side door.

Franky obediently climbed into the passenger side. “I bet you were a Girl Scout,” she continued as Erica pulled into the traffic. The easy banter helped Franky pretend this was just a weekend away with her girlfriend.

“It’s a girl guide not scout,” Erica corrected her. “Only until I was 13,” she admitted, her eyes firmly on the road so she didn’t have to see Franky’s smirk. “I learnt some useful skills.”

“Yeah?” Franky was definitely smiling. “What were those then?”

“You can be dismissive Franky, but -“

“Hey, complete respect over here,” Franky put her hand up to show she was weaponless.

“I learnt how to tie knots,” Erica offered seriously.

“Well, that could definitely be useful,” Franky acknowledged and put her free hand onto Erica’s thigh leaning across to kiss her.

Erica pushed her away. “I’m driving.” She said. “You can kiss me later.”

Franky grinned. “Where are we going?” She asked curiously. She didn’t remove her hand from Erica’s thigh.

“You’ll see,” Erica said, wondering if Franky had packed swimmers. Then deciding that it didn’t matter because she would just take her shopping to buy some.  
  
The traffic was light and Erica opened up the throttle to let the Audi clear out its cobwebs. Franky pulled off her boots and put her feet up on the dash then she connected her phone to the car’s stereo system. It was a bright cloudless morning, and the idea of being couped up in an office all day was just unthinkable. Her sick certificate didn’t run out until the following week so Laura wouldn’t be expecting her. She had put the keys to the flat in an envelope and left them in the letter box. She didn’t know what had happened to Laura’s car keys. Mia hadn’t returned them and Franky had forgotten to ask. She just hoped Laura had a spare set.

She wished she could have seen her dad before she left. It gutted her that they had just been getting to a point where his absence for all those years hadn’t been so raw and hurtful. Now she was the one to leave, without warning, without explanation. She saw the irony. Was her reason any better? She was saving herself but maybe he had been doing that as well when he had walked out that day. She realised what hurt was that he hadn’t saved her too. Now she would lose the opportunity to be a daughter, a sister. She felt the sorrow well up again. She couldn’t think about it, if she did she wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

She turned to Erica for a distraction as she had during those years in Wentworth. Her face in profile, concentrating on the road, also lost in thought, she looked so assured and certain of her place in the world. Franky knew that was a facade, she had always seen through Erica, honed in on her insecurities and called her on them. She thought she understood Erica until Erica did something completely unexpected. Like her declaration the other day. Franky had not seen that coming.

“You didn’t happen to pick up any food with those coffees?” Erica said suddenly.

Franky was pleased she had anticipated this. She rummaged in the back seat an found a paper bag. “Chocolate croissant or a danish,” she offered. “It’s lychee and raspberry,” she added heading off Erica’s next question.

Erica took the danish. “Lychee over chocolate, huh?” Franky said with a smirk as she bit into her pastry and promptly spread icing sugar everywhere. “You do like to buck against the trend.”

“And you don’t?” Erica asked as she tried to curtail the pastry flakes that fell around her. “You bought the lychee and raspberry danish,” she pointed out.

“Coz I knew it was just the sort of thing you’d go for,” Franky countered but her words were getting difficult to understand. “One to me,” she said smugly.

Erica glanced across at her. “You have icing sugar all over your face,” she watched Franky attempt to wipe and lick it off.

“Better?” Franky asked.

“No,” Erica told her.

Franky grabbed the rear view mirror to look for herself. She laughed when she saw her state. “Can’t improve on perfection, you know,” she said as she cleaned her face with a facial wipe she found in the glovebox. “How about I drive?” She offered.

Erica straightened the mirror. “How about you,” but Franky wasn’t destined to hear Erica’s suggestion. “Damn it,” she muttered. She took her foot off the accelerator.

“What is it?” Franky asked.

“Police,” Erica told her. She cursed under her breath. “I wasn’t speeding.”

Franky craned her neck and saw flashing lights behind them. She slunk down into her seat slightly and pulled her feet off the dash. “Fuck,” she muttered.

Erica glanced at her as she pulled onto the shoulder. She put her window down.

“I wasn’t speeding,” she repeated to the officer when he appeared at her door.

“Can I see your licence,” was all he said. Franky was relieved Erica had refused her offer to drive.

Erica rummaged through her bag and found her purse. She produced her licence and waited while he scanned it for a check.

“Where are you headed?” He asked Erica while he waited for the results.

“Down the Great Ocean Road, I’m not sure how far we’ll get today.”

“Holiday is it?” He asked, peering inside the car at Franky.

To Franky’s paranoia the look he seemed to give her was suspicious and lasted longer than necessary. She was sure this random stop was about her, that her run was over, the shortest run in the history of running.

“Just a long weekend,” Erica was telling him. “Get out of the city, soak up some sun.”

He glanced back to Erica before reviewing the results of the scan. Franky wished she’d kept her boots on. If they were looking for her, she wouldn’t get far without shoes. They must be monitoring Erica’s apartment. Ferguson must have turned up and they knew she was implicated.

“Miss Davidson,” The officer was frowning. “There seems to be a problem here.”

Franky surreptitiously unlatched her seatbelt and her hand reached for the door handle. Erica was frowning. “What problem?”

Franky could feel her heart thudding in her chest. She scanned their location, looking for options.

“There is an unpaid parking fine registered against this vehicle,” the officer told her. “Are you aware of that?”

Franky let out her breath.

“Oh,” Erica said with surprise, “no.”

“It is well overdue,” He remonstrated. “I can’t let you continue without paying it.”

Erica frowned. “How do I do that? We’re in the middle of nowhere.” She objected.

“Pay it online,” Franky spoke for the first time. She couldn’t believe Erica had forgotten to pay a frigging parking fine. “Now, on your phone.”

Erica looked at the officer for confirmation. He nodded then waited until she had completed the transaction and had shown him the receipt number.

“Enjoy your holiday,” he said in farewell.

Franky put her head against the dashboard and knocked it slowly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered then let out a strangled cry.

Erica looked at her. “What?” She asked.

“I thought,” Franky laughed at herself. “I fucking thought he was going to arrest me!” She exclaimed.

“Franky,” Erica said in all seriousness, “nothing is going to ruin our weekend away. Nothing and no one,” she finished emphatically.


End file.
